THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


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The  Return 


The  Works  of 
WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

IN  VERSE 

SONGS  OF    CHILDHOOD 
POEMS  (Out  of  print) 
THE  LISTENERS  and  Other  Poems 
PEACOCK  PIE 
A    CHILD'S   DAY 
MOTLEY  and  Other  Poem* 
FLORA 

POEMS:  1901-1918 
THE  VEIL  and  Other  Poems 

IN  PROSE 

HENRY  BROCKEN  (Out  »f  print) 
THE  THREE  MULLA  MULGARS 
THE  RETURN 
RUPERT  BROOKE:  and  the  Intellectual 

Imagination  (a  Lecture) 
STORY  AND  RHYMB 
MEMOIRS  OF  A  MIDGET 
CROSSINGS  (A  Play  far  Childrtn) 
[Shortly] 


Ac 

RETURN 


fr  WALTER  «fc  a,  MARE 


NEW  YORK     MCMXXII 

ALFRED 'A- KNOPF 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  August,  1923 


Bet  vj>  and  electrotyped  by  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binohomton,  N.  f. 
Paper  furnished  bv  W.  f.  Ether  ingion  &  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 
Printed  and  bound  by  the  Plimpton  Prea,  Norwood,  Man. 

MANUFACTURED     IN    THE     UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


College 
Library 


"Look  not  for  roses  in  Attains  his  garden,  or  whole- 
some flowers  in  a  venomous  plantation.  And  since  there 
is  scarce  any  one  bad,  but  some  others  are  the  worse  for, 
him;  tempt  not  contagion  by  proximity,  and  hazard  not 
thyself  in  the  shadow  of  corruption." 

— SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 


The  Return 


Chapter  One 


THE  churchyard  in  which  Arthur  Lawford  found 
himself  wandering  that  mild  and  golden  Septem- 
ber afternoon  was  old,  green,  and  refreshingly 
still.  The  silence  in  which  it  lay  seemed  as  keen  and 
mellow  as  the  light — the  pale,  almost  heatless,  sunlight 
that  filled  the  air.  Here  and  there  robins  sang  across  the 
stones,  elvishly  shrill  in  the  quiet  of  harvest.  The  only 
other  living  creature  there  seemed  to  Lawford  to  be  his 
own  rather  fair,  not  insubstantial,  rather  languid  self, 
who  at  the  noise  of  the  birds  had  raised  his  head  and 
glanced  as  if  between  content  and  incredulity  across  his 
still  and  solitary  surroundings.  An  increasing  inclination 
for  such  lonely  ramblings,  together  with  the  feeling  that 
his  continued  ill-health  had  grown  a  little  irksome  to  his 
wife,  and  that  now  that  he  was  really  better  she  would  be 
relieved  at  his  absence,  had  induced  him  to  wander  on 
from  home  without  much  considering  where  the  quiet 
lanes  were  leading  him.  And  in  spite  of  a  peculiar 
melancholy  that  had  welled  up  into  his  mind  during  these 
last  few  days,  he  had  certainly  smiled  with  a  faint  sense 
of  the  irony  of  things  on  lifting  his  eyes  in  an  unusually 
depressed  moodiness  to  find  himself  looking  down  on  the 
shadows  and  peace  of  Widderstone. 

With  that  anxious  irresolution  which  illness  so  often 
brings  in  its  train  he  had  hesitated  for  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore actually  entering  the  graveyard.  But  once  safely 
within  he  had  begun  to  feel  extremely  loth  to  think  of 
turning  back  again,  and  this  not  the  less  at  remembering 

3 


The  Return 

with  a  real  foreboding  that  it  was  now  drawing  towards 
evening,  that  another  day  was  nearly  done.  He  trailed 
his  umbrella  behind  him  over  the  grass-grown  paths; 
staying  here  and  there  to  read  some  time-worn  inscription ; 
stooping  a  little  broodingly  over  the  dark  green  graves. 
Not  for  the  first  time  during  the  long  laborious  con- 
valescence that  had  followed  apparently  so  slight  an  in- 
disposition, a  fleeting  sense  almost  as  if  of  an  unintelligible 
remorse  had  overtaken  him,  a  vague  thought  that  behind 
all  these  past  years,  hidden  as  it  were  from  his  daily  life, 
lay  something  not  yet  quite  reckoned  with.  How  often 
as  a  boy  had  he  been  rapped  into  a  galvanic  activity  out  of 
the  deep  reveries  he  used  to  fall  into — those  fits  of  a  kind 
of  fishlike  day-dream.  How  often,  and  even  far  beyond 
boyhood,  had  he  found  himself  bent  on  some  distant 
thought  or  fleeting  vision  that  the  sudden  clash  of  self- 
possession  had  made  to  seem  quite  illusory,  and  yet  had 
left  so  strangely  haunting.  And  now  the  old  habit  had 
stirred  out  of  its  long  sleep,  and,  through  the  gate  that 
Influenza  in  departing  had  left  ajar,  had  returned  upon 
him. 

'But  I  suppose  we  are  all  pretty  much  the  same,  if  we 
only  knew  it,'  he  had  consoled  himself.  'We  keep  our 
crazy  side  to  ourselves;  that's  all.  We  just  go  on  for 
years  and  years  doing  and  saying  whatever  happens  to 
come  up — and  really  keen  about  it  too' — he  had  glanced 
up  with  a  kind  of  challenge  in  his  face  at  the  squat  little 
belfry — 'and  then,  without  the  slightest  reason  or  warn- 
ing, down  you  go,  and  it  all  begins  to  wear  thin,  and  you 
get  wondering  what  on  earth  it  all  means.'  Memory 
slipped  back  for  an  instant  to  the  life  that  in  so  unusual 
a  fashion  seemed  to  have  floated  a  little  aloof.  For- 
4 


The  Return 

tunately  he  had  not  discussed  these  inward  symptoms 
with  his  wife.  How  surprised  Sheila  would  be  to  see 
him  loafing  in  this  old,  crooked  churchyard.  How  she 
would  lift  her  dark  eyebrows,  with  that  handsome,  in- 
different tolerance.  He  smiled,  but  a  little  confusedly; 
yet  the  thought  gave  even  a  spice  of  adventure  to  the 
evening's  ramble. 

He  loitered  on,  scarcely  thinking  at  all  now,  stooping 
here  and  there.  These  faint  listless  ideas  made  no  more 
stir  than  the  sunlight  gilding  the  fading  leaves,  the  crisp 
turf  underfoot.  With  a  slight  effort  he  stooped  even 
once  again ; — 

'Stranger,  a  moment  pause,  and  stay; 
In  this  dim  chamber  hidden  away 
Lies  one  who  once  found  life  as  dear 
As  now  he  finds  his  slumbers  here: 
Pray,  then,  the  Judgment  but  increase 
His  deep,  everlasting  peace!' 

'But  then,  do  you  know  you  lie  at  peace?'  Lawford 
audibly  questioned,  gazing  at  the  doggerel.  And  yet,  as 
his  eyes  wandered  over  the  blunt  green  stone  and  the 
rambling  crimson-berried  brier  that  had  almost  encircled 
it  with  its  thorns,  the  echo  of  that  whisper  rather  jarred. 
He  was,  he  supposed,  rather  a  dull  creature — at  least 
people  seemed  to  think  so — and  he  seldom  felt  at  ease 
even  with  his  own  small  facetiousness.  Besides,  just 
that  kind  of  question  was  getting  very  common.  Now 
that  cleverness  was  the  fashion  most  people  were  clever — 
even  perfect  fools;  and  cleverness  after  all  was  often 
only  a  bore:  all  head  and  no  body.  He  turned  languidly 
to  the  small  cross-shaped  stone  on  the  other  side : 

5 


The  Return 

'Here  lies  the  body  of  Ann  Hard,  who  died  in  child-bed. 
Also  of  James,  her  infant  son' 

He  muttered  the  words  over  with  a  kind  of  mournful 
bitterness.  'That's  just  it — just  it;  that's  just  how  it 
goes!'  .  .  .  He  yawned  softly;  the  pathway  had  come  to 
an  end.  Beyond  him  lay  ranker  grass,  one  and  another 
obscurer  mounds,  an  old  scarred  oak  seat,  shadowed  by  a 
few  everlastingly  green  cypresses  and  coral-fruited  yew- 
trees.  And  above  and  beyond  all  hung  a  pale  blue  arch 
of  sky  with  a  few  voyaging  clouds  like  silvered  wool,  and 
the  calm  wide  curves  of  stubble  field  and  pasture  land. 
He  stood  with  vacant  eyes,  not  in  the  least  aware  how 
queer  a  figure  he  made  with  his  gloves  and  his  umbrella 
and  his  hat  among  the  stained  and  tottering  gravestones. 
Then,  just  to  linger  out  his  hour,  and  half  sunken  in 
reverie,  he  walked  slowly  over  to  the  few  solitary  graves 
beneath  the  cypresses. 

One  onlly  was  commemorated  with  a  tombstone,  a 
rather  unusual  oval-headed  stone,  carved  at  each  corner 
into  what  might  be  the  heads  of  angels,  or  of  pagan 
dryads,  blindly  facing  each  other  with  worn-out,  sight- 
less faces.  A  low  curved  granite  canopy  arched  over  the 
grave,  with  a  crevice  so  wide  between  its  stones  that 
Law  ford  actually  bent  down  and  slid  in  his  gloved  fingers 
between  them.  He  straightened  himself  with  a  sigh, 
and  followed  with  extreme  difficulty  the  well-nigh,  il- 
legible inscription: — 

'Here  lie  ye  Bones  of  one, 
Nicholas  Sabathier,  a  Stranger  to  this  Parish, 

who  fell  by  his  own  Hand  on  ye 
Eve  of  Ste.  Michael  and  All  Angels. 

MDCCXXXIX: 

6 


The  Return 

Of  the  date  he  was  a  little  uncertain.  The  'Hand'  had 
lost  its  'n'  and  'd';  and  all  the  'Angels'  rain  had  erased. 
He  was  not  quite  sure  even  of  the  'Stranger.'  There 
was  a  great  rich  'S,'  and  the  twisted  tail  of  a  'g';  and, 
whether  or  not,  Lawford  smilingly  thought,  he  is  no 
Stranger  now.  But  how  rare  and  how  memorable  a 
name!  French  evidently;  probably  Huguenot.  And  the 
Huguenots,  he  remembered  vaguely,  were  a  rather  re- 
markable 'crowd.'  He  had,  he  thought,  even  played  at 
'Huguenots'  once.  What  was  the  man's  name? 
Coligny;  yes,  of  course,  Coligny.  'And  I  suppose,'  La!w- 
ford  continued,  muttering  to  himself,  'I  suppose  this  poor 
beggar  was  put  here  out  of  the  way.  They  might,  you 
know,'  he  added  confidentially,  raising  the  ferrule  of  his 
umbrella,  'they  might  have  stuck  a  stake  through  you, 
and  buried  you  at  the  crossroads.'  And  again,  a  feeling 
of  ennui,  a  faint  disgust  at  his  poor  little  witticism,  clouded 
over  his  mind.  It  was  a  pity  thoughts  always  ran  the 
easiest  way,  like  water  in  old  ditches. 

'  "Here  lie  ye  bones  of  one,  Nicholas  Sabathier," '  he 
began  murmuring  again — 'merely  bones,  mind  you ;  brains 
and  heart  are  quite  another  story.  And  it's  pretty  certain 
the  fellow  had  some  kind  of  brains.  Besides,  poor  devil ! 
he  killed  himself.  That  seems  to  hint  at  brains  .  .  .  Oh, 
for  goodness'  sake !'  he  cried  out ;  so  loud  that  the  sound 
of  his  voice  alarmed  even  a  robin  that  had  perched  on  a 
twig  almost  within  touch,  with  glittering  eye  intent  above 
its  dim  red  breast  on  this  other  and  even  rarer  stranger. 

'I  wonder  if  it  is  XXXIX.;  it  might  be  LXXIX.' 
Lawford  cast  a  cautious  glance  over  his  round  grey 
shoulder,  then  laboriously  knelt  down  beside  the  stone, 
and  peeped  into  the  gaping  cranny.  There  he  encountered 

7 


The  Return 

merely  the  tiny,  pale-green,  faintly  conspicuous  eyes  of  a 
large  spider,  confronting  his  own.  It  was  for  the  mo- 
ment an  alarming,  and  yet  a  faintly  fascinating  experience. 
The  little  almost  colourless  fires  remained  so  changeless. 
But  still,  even  when  at  last  they  had  actually  vanished  in- 
to the  recesses  of  that  quiet  habitation,  Law  ford  did  not 
rise  from  his  knees.  An  utterly  unreasonable  feeling  of 
dismay,  a  sudden  weakness  and  weariness  had  come  over 
him. 

'What  is  the  good  of  it  all?'  he  asked  himself  in- 
consequently — this  monotonous,  restless,  stupid  life  to 
which  he  was  soon  to  be  returning,  and  for  good.  He 
began  to  realize  how  ludicrous  a  spectacle  he  must  be, 
kneeling  here  amid  the  weeds  and  grass  beneath  the  solemn 
cypresses.  'Well,  you  can't  have  everything/  seemed 
loosely  to  express  his  disquiet. 

He  stared  vacantly  at  the  green  and  fretted  grave- 
stone, dimly  aware  that  his  heart  was  beating  with  an  un- 
usual effort.  He  felt  ill  and  weak.  He  leant  his  hand 
on  the  stone  and  lifted  himself  on  to  the  low  wooden  seat 
near  by.  He  drew  off  his  glove  and  thrust  his  bare  hand 
under  his  waistcoat,  with  his  mouth  a  little  ajar,  and  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  dark  square  turret,  its  bell  sharply  de- 
fined against  the  evening  sky. 

'Dead!'  a  bitter  inward  voice  seemed  to  break  into 
speech;  'Dead!'  The  viewless  air  semed  to  be  flocking 
with  hidden  listeners.  The  very  clearness  and  the  crystal 
silence  were  their  ambush.  He  alone  seemed  to  be  the 
target  of  cold  and  hostile  scrutiny.  There  was  not  a 
breath  to  breathe  in  this  crisp,  pale  sunshine.  It  was 
all  too  rare,  too  thin.  The  shadows  lay  like  wings  ever- 
lastingly folded.  The  robin  that  had  been  his  only  living 
8 


The  Return 

witness  lifted  its  throat,  and  broke,  as  if  from  the  utter- 
most outskirts  of  reality,  into  its  shrill,  passionless  song. 
Lawford  moved  heavy  eyes  from  one  object  to  another — 
bird — sun-gilded  stone — those  two  small  earth-worn  faces 
— his  hands — a  stirring  in  the  grass  as  of  some  creature 
labouring  to  climb  up.  It  was  useless  to  sit  here  any 
longer.  He  must  go  back  now.  Fancies  were  all  very 
well  for  a  change,  but  must  be  only  occasional  guests  in 
a  world  devoted  to  reality.  He  leaned  his  hand  on  the 
dark  grey  wood,  and  closed  his  eyes.  The  lids  presently 
unsealed  a  little,  momentarily  revealing  astonished,  ag- 
grieved pupils,  and  softly,  slowly  they  again  des- 
cended. . . . 

The  flaming  rose  that  had  swiftly  surged  from  the 
west  into  the  zenith,  dyeing  all  the  churchyard  grass  a  wild 
and  vivid  green,  and  the  stooping  stones  above  it  a  pure 
faint  purple,  waned  softly  back  like  a  falling  fountain  into 
its  basin.  In  a  few  minutes,  only  a  faint  orange  burned  in 
the  west,  dimly  illuminating  with  its  band  of  light  the 
huddled  figure  on  his  low  wood  seat,  his  right  hand  still 
pressed  against  a  faintly  beating  heart.  Dusk  gathered; 
the  first  white  stars  appeared ;  out  of  the  shadowy  fields  a 
nightjar  purred.  But  there  was  only  the  silence  of  the 
falling  dew  among  the  graves.  Down  here,  under  the  ink- 
black  cypresses,  the  blades  of  the  grass  were  stooping 
with  cold  drops;  and  darkness  lay  like  the  hem  of  an 
enormous  cloak,  whose  jewels  above  the  breast  of  its 
wearer  might  be  in  the  unfathomable  clearness  the  glitter- 
ing constellations.  .  .  . 

In  his  small  cage  of  darkness  Lawford  shuddered  and 
raised  a  furtive  head.  He  stood  up  and  peered  eagerly 
and  strangely  from  side  to  side.  He  stayed  quite  still, 

9 


The  Return 

listening  as  raptly  as  some  wandering  night-beast  to  the 
indiscriminate  stir  and  echoings  of  the  darkness.  He 
cocked  his  head  above  his  shoulder  and  listened  again, 
then  turned  upon  the  soundless  grass  towards  the  hill. 
He  felt  not  the  faintest  astonishment  or  strangeness  in 
his  solitude  here;  only  a  little  chilled,  and  physically  un- 
easy; and  yet  in  this  vast  darkness  a  faint  spiritual  ex- 
altation seemed  to  hover. 

He  hastened  up  the  narrow  path,  walking  with  knees 
a  little  bent,  like  an  old  labourer  who  has  lived  a  life  of 
stooping,  and  came  out  into  the  dry  and  dusty  lane.  One 
moment  his  instinct  hesitated  as  to  which  turn  to  take — 
only  a  moment;  he  was  soon  walking  swiftly,  almost 
trotting,  downhill  with  this  vivid  exaltation  in  the  huge 
dark  night  in  his  heart,  and  Sheila  merely  a  little  angry 
Titianesque  cloud  on  a  scarcely  perceptible  horizon.  He 
had  no  notion  of  the  time ;  the  golden  hands  of  his  watch 
were  indiscernible  in  the  gloom.  But  presently,  as  he 
passed  by,  he  pressed  his  face  close  to  the  cold  glass  of  a 
little  shop-window,  and  pierced  that  out  by  an  old  Swiss 
cuckoo-clock.  He  would  if  he  hurried  just  be  home  be- 
fore dinner. 

He  broke  into  a  slow,  steady  trot,  gaining  speed  as  he 
ran  on,  vaguely  elated  to  find  how  well  his  breath  was 
serving  him.  An  odd  smile  darkened  his  face  at  remem- 
brance of  the  thoughts  he  had  been  thinking.  There 
could  be  little  amiss  with  the  heart  of  a  man  who  could 
shamble  along  like  this,  taking  even  pleasure,  an  increas- 
ing pleasure  in  this  long,  wolf -like  stride.  He  turned 
round  occasionally  to  look  into  the  face  of  some  fellow- 
wayfarer  whom  he  had  overtaken,  for  he  felt  not  only 
this  unusual  animation,  this  peculiar  zest,  but  that,  like  a 
10 


The  Return 

boy  on  some  secret  errand,  he  had  slightly  disguised  his 
very  presence,  was  going  masked,  as  it  were,  Even  his 
clothes  seemed  to  have  connived  at  this  queer  illusion. 
No  tailor  had  for  these  ten  years  allowed  him  so  much 
latitude.  He  cautiously  at  last  opened  his  garden  gate 
and  with  soundless  agility  mounted  the  six  stone  steps,  his 
latch-key  ready  in  his  gloveless  hand,  and  softly  let  himself 
into  the  house. 

Sheila  was  out,  it  seemed,  for  the  maid  had  forgotten 
to  light  the  lamp.  Without  pausing  to  take  off  his  great- 
coat, he  hung  up  his  hat,  ran  nimbly  upstairs,  and  knocked 
with  a  light  knuckle  on  his  bedroom  door.  It  was  closed, 
but  no  answer  came.  He  opened  it,  shut  it,  locked  it,  and 
sat  down  on  the  bedside  for  a  moment,  in  the  darkness, 
so  that  he  could  scarcely  hear  any  other  sound,  as  he  sat 
erect  and  still,  like  some  night  animal,  wary  of  danger, 
attentively  alert.  Then  he  rose  from  the  bed,  threw  off 
his  coat,  which  was  clammy  with  dew,  and  lit  a  candle  on 
the  dressing-table. 

Its  narrow  flame  lengthened,  drooped,  brightened, 
gleamed  clearly.  He  glanced  around  him,  unusually  con- 
tented— at  the  ruddiness  of  the  low  fire,  the  brass  bedstead, 
the  warm  red  curtains,  the  soft  silveriness  here  and  there. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  heavy  and  dull  dream  had  withdrawn  out 
of  his  mind.  He  would  go  again  some  day,  and  sit  on 
the  little  hard  seat  beside  the  crooked  tombstone  of  the 
friendless  old  Huguenot.  He  opened  a  drawer,  took  out 
his  razors,  and,  faintly  whistling,  returned  to  the  table  and 
lit  a  second  candle.  And  still  with  this  strange  heightened 
sense  of  life  stirring  in  his  mind,  he  drew  his  hand  gently 
over  his  chin  and  looked  into  the  glass. 

For  an  instant  he  stood  head  to  foot  icily  still,  without 

II 


The  Return 

the  least  feeling,  or  thought,  or  stir — staring  into  the  look- 
ing-glass. Then  an  inconceivable  drumming  beat  on  his 
ear.  A  warm  surge,  like  the  onset  of  a  wave,  broke  in 
him,  flooding  neck,  face,  forehead,  even  his  hands  with  col- 
our. He  caught  himself  up  and  wheeled  deliberately  and 
completely  round,  his  eyes  darting  to  and  fro,  suddenly  to 
fix  themselves  in  a  prolonged  stare,  while  he  took  a  deep 
breath,  caught  back  his  self-possession  and  paused. 
Then  he  turned  and  once  more  confronted  the  changed 
strange  face  in  the  glass. 

Without  a  sound  he  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down, 
just  as  he  was,  frigid  and  appalled,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
To  sit  like  this,  with  a  kind  of  incredibly  swift  torrent  of 
consciousness,  bearing  echoes  and  images  like  straws  and 
bubbles  on  its  surface,  could  not  be  called  thinking.  Some 
stealthy  hand  had  thrust  open  the  sluice  of  memory.  And 
words,  voices,  faces  of  mockery  streamed  through  with- 
out connection,  tendency,  or  sense.  His  hands  hung  be- 
tween his  knees,  a  deep  and  settled  frown  darkened  the 
features  stooping  out  of  the  direct  rays  of  the  light,  and 
his  eyes  wandered  like  busy  and  inquisitive,  but  stupid, 
animals  over  the  floor. 

If,  in  that  flood  of  unintelligible  thoughts,  anything 
clearly  recurred  at  all,  it  was  the  memory  of  Sheila.  He 
saw  her  face,  lit,  transfigured,  distorted,  stricken,  appeal- 
ing, horrified.  His  lids  narrowed;  a  vague  terror  and 
horror  mastered  him.  He  hid  his  eyes  in  his  hands  and 
cried  without  sound,  without  tears,  without  hope,  like  a 
desolate  child.  He  ceased  crying;  and  sat  without  stirr- 
ing. And  it  seemed  after  an  age  of  vacancy  and  mean- 
inglessness  he  heard  a  door  shut  downstairs,  a  distant 
voice,  and  then  the  rustle  of  some  one  slowly  ascending 
12 


The  Return 

the  stairs.  Some  one  turned  the  handle ;  in  vain ;  tapped. 
'Is  that  you,  Arthur?' 

For  an  instant  Lawford  paused,  then  like  a  child  listen- 
ing for  an  echo,  answered,  'Yes,  Sheila.'  And  a  sigh 
•broke  from  him;  his  voice,  except  for  a  little  huskiness, 
was  singularly  unchanged. 

'May  I  come  in?'  Lawford  stood  softly  up  and 
glanced  once  more  into  the  glass.  His  lips  set  tight,  and 
a  slight  frown  settled  between  the  long,  narrow,  intensely 
dark  eyes. 

'Just  one  moment,  Sheila,'  he  answered  slowly,  'just  one 
moment.' 

'How  long  will  you  be  ?' 

He  stood  erect  and  raised  his  voice,  gazing  the  while 
impassively  into  the  glass. 

'It's  no  use,'  he  began,  as  if  repeating  a  lesson,  'it's  no 
use  your  asking  me,  Sheila.  Please  give  me  a  moment, 
a  ...  I  am  not  quite  myself,  dear,'  he  added  quite 
gravely. 

The  faintest  hint  of  vexation  was  in  the  answer. 

'What  is  the  matter?  Can't  I  help?  It's  so  very 
absurd ' 

'What  is  absurd  ?'  he  asked  dully. 

'Why,  standing  like  this  outside  my  own  bedroom  door. 
Are  you  ill?  I  will  send  for  Dr.  Simon.' 

'Please,  Sheila,  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  am  not  ill. 
I  merely  want  a  little  time  to  think  in.  There  was  again 
a  brief  pause,  and  then  a  slight  rattling  at  the  handle. 

'Arthur,  I  insist  on  knowing  at  once  what's  wrong; 
this  does  not  sound  a  bit  like  yourself.  It  is  not  even 
quite  like  your  own  voice.' 

'It  is  myself,'  he  replied  stubbornly,  staring  fixedly 

13 


The  Return 

into  the  glass.  'You  must  give  me  a  few  moments,  Sheila. 
Something  has  happened.  My  face.  Come  back  in  an 
hour.' 

'Don't  be  absurd;  it's  simply  wicked  to  talk  like  that. 
How  do  I  know  what  you  are  doing?  As  if  I  can  leave 
you  for  an  hour  in  uncertainty!  Your  face!  If  you 
don't  open  at  once  I  shall  believe  there's  something  seri- 
ously wrong :  I  shall  send  Ada  for  assistance.' 

'If  you  do  that,  Sheila,  it  will  be  disastrous.    I  cannot 

answer  for  the  con .     Go  quietly  downstairs.     Say  I 

am  unwell;  don't  wait  dinner  for  me;  come  back  in  an 
hour ;  oh,  half  an  hour !' 

The  answer  broke  out  angrily.  'You  must  be  mad, 
beside  yourself,  to  ask  such  a  thing.  I  shall  wait  in  the 
next  room  until  you  call.' 

'Wait  where  you  please,'  Law  ford  replied,  'but  tell  them 
downstairs.' 

'Then  if  I  tell  them  to  wait  until  half -past  eight,  you 
will  come  down?  You  say  you  are  not  ill:  the  dinner 
will  be  ruined.  It's  absurd.' 

Law  ford  made  no  answer.  He  listened  a  while,  then 
he  deliberately  sat  down  once  more  to  try  to  think.  Like 
a  squirrel  in  a  cage  his  mind  seemed  to  be  aimlessly,  un- 
ceasingly astir.  'What  is  it  really?  What  is  it  really? — 
really?'  He  sat  there  and  it  seemed  to  him  his  body  was 
transparent  as  glass.  It  seemed  he  had  no  body  at  all — 
only  the  memory  of  an  hallucinatory  reflection  in  the  glass, 
and  this  inward  voice  crying,  arguing,  questioning, 
threatening  out  of  the  silence — 'What  is  it  really — really — 
really!"  And  at  last,  cold,  wearied  out,  he  rose  once  more 
and  leaned  between  the  two  long  candle-flames,  and  stared 
on— on — on,  into  the  glass. 
14 


The  Return 

He  gave  that  long,  dark  face  that  had  been  foisted  on 
him  tricks  to  do — lift  an  eyebrow,  frown.  There  was 
scarcely  any  perceptible  pause  between  the  wish  and  its 
performance.  He  found  to  his  discomfiture  that  the  face 
answered  instantaneously  to  the  slightest  emotion,  even  to 
his  fainter  secondary  thoughts;  as  if  these  unfamiliar 
features  were  not  entirely  within  control.  He  could  not, 
in  fact,  without  the  glass  before  him,  tell  precisely  what 
that  face  was  expressing.  He  was  still,  it  seemed,  keenly 
sane.  That  he  would  discover  for  certain  when  Sheila 
returned.  Terror,  rage,  horror  had  fallen  back.  If  only 
he  felt  ill,  or  was  in  pain ;  he  would  have  rejoiced  at  it. 
He  was  simply  caught  in  some  unheard-of  snare — caught, 
how  ?  when  ?  where  ?  by  whom  ? 


Chapter  Two 


BUT  the  coolness  and  deliberation  of  his  scrutiny, 
had  to  a  certain  extent  calmed  Law  ford's  mind 
and  given  him  confidence.  Hitherto  he  had  met 
the  little  difficulties  of  life  only  to  vanquish  them  with 
ease  and  applause.  Now  he  was  standing  face  to  face 
with  the  unknown.  He  burst  out  laughing,  into  a  long, 
low,  helpless  laughter.  Then  he  arose  and  began  to  walk 
softly,  swiftly,  to  and  fro  across  the  room — from  wall  to 
wall  seven  paces,  and  at  the  fourth,  that  awful,  unseen, 
brightly-lit  profile  passed  as  swiftly  over  the  tranquil  sur- 
face of  the  looking-glass.  The  power  of  concentration 
was  gone  again.  He  simply  paced  on  mechanically,  list- 
ening to  a  Babel  of  questions,  a  conflicting  medley  of 
answers.  But  above  all  the  confusion  and  turmoil  of  his 
brain,  as  a  boatswain's  whistle  rises  above  a  storm,  so 
sounded  that  same  infinitesimal  voice,  incessantly  repeat- 
ing another  question  now,  'What  are  you  going  to  do? 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ?' 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  confusion,  out  of  the  infinite, 
as  it  were,  came  another  sharp  tap  at  the  door,  and  all 
within  sank  to  utter  stillness  again. 

'It's  nearly  half-past  eight,  Arthur;  I  can't  wait  any 
longer.' 

Lawford  cast  a  last  fleeting  look  into  the  glass,  turned, 
and  confronted  the  closed  door.     'Very  well,  Sheila,  you 
shall  not  wait  any  longer.'     He  crossed  over  to  the  door, 
and  suddenly  a  swift  crafty  idea  flashed  into  his  mind. 
16 


The  Return 

He  tapped  on  the  panel.  'Sheila/  he  said  softly,  'I 
want  you  first,  before  you  come  in,  to  get  me  something 
out  of  my  old  writing-desk  in  the  smoking-room.  Here 
is  the  key.'  He  pushed  a  tiny  key — from  off  the  ring  he 
carried — beneath  the  door.  'In  the  third  little  drawer 
from  the  top,  on  the  left  side,  is  a  letter ;  please  don't  say 
anything  now.  It  is  the  letter  you  wrote  me,  you  will  re- 
member, after  I  had  asked  you  to  marry  me.  You 
scribbled  in  the  corner  under  your  signature  the  initials 
"Y.S.O.A." — do  you  remember?  They  meant,  You 
Silly  Old  Arthur! — do  you  remember?  Will  you  please 
get  that  letter  at  once?' 

'Arthur,'  answered  the  voice  from  without,  empty  of 
all  expression,  'what  does  all  this  mean,  this  mystery,  this 
hopeless  nonsense  about  a  silly  letter?  What  has  hap- 
pened? Is  this  a  miserable  form  of  persecution?  Are 
you  mad? — I  refuse  to  get  the  letter/ 

Law  ford  stooped,  black  and  angular,  against  the  door. 
'I  am  not  mad.  Oh,  I  am  in  the  deadliest  earnest,  Sheila. 
You  must  get  the  letter,  if  only  for  your  own  peace  of 
mind/  He  heard  his  wife  hesitate  as  she  turned.  He 
heard  a  sob.  And  once  more  he  waited. 

'I  have  brought  the  letter/  came  the  low  toneless  voice 
again. 

'Have  you  opened  it?* 

There  was  a  rustle  of  paper.  'Are  the  letters  there — 
underlined  three  times— "Y.S.O.A."  ?' 

'The  letters  are  there/ 

'And  the  date  of  the  month  is  underneath,  "April  3rd." 
No  one  else  in  the  whole  world,  living  or  dead,  could 
know  of  this  but  ourselves,  Sheila?' 

'Will  you  please  open  the  door?' 

17 


The  Return 

'No  one?' 

'I  suppose  not — no  one/ 

'Then  come  in.'  He  unlocked  the  door  and  opened  it. 
A  dark,  rather  handsome  woman,  with  sleek  hair,  in  a 
silk  dress  of  a  dark  rich  colour  entered.  Law  ford  closed 
the  door.  But  his  face  was  in  shadow.  He  had  still  a 
moment's  respite. 

'I  need  not  ask  you  to  be  patient,'  he  began  quickly; 
'if  I  could  possibly  have  spared  you — if  there  had  been 
anybody  in  the  world  to  go  to  ...  I  am  in  horrible,  hor- 
rible trouble,  Sheila.  It  is  inconceivable.  I  said  I  was 
sane :  so  I  am,  but  the  fact  is^ — I  went  out  for  a  walk ;  it 
was  rather  stupid,  perhaps,  so  soon:  and  I  think  I  was 
taken  ill,  or  something — my  heart.  A  kind  of  fit,  a  nerv- 
ous fit.  Possibly  I  am  a  little  unstrung,  and  it's  all,  it's 
mainly  fancy:  but  I  think,  I  can't  help  thinking  it  has  a 
little  distorted — changed  my  face ;  everything,  Sheila ;  ex- 
cept, of  course,  myself.  Would  you  mind  looking?' 
He  walked  slowly  and  with  face  averted  towards  the 
dressing-table. 

'Simply  a  nervous — to  make  such  a  fuss,  to  scare!  .  .  .' 
began  his  wife,  following  him. 

Without  a  word  he  took  up  the  two  old  china  candle- 
sticks, and  held  them,  one  in  each  lank-fingered  hand,  be- 
fore his  face,  and  turned. 

Law  ford  could  see  his  wife — every  tint  and  curve  and 
line  as  distinctly  as  she  could  see  him.  Her  cheeks  never 
had  much  colour;  now  her  whole  face  visibly  darkened, 
from  pallor  to  a  dusky  leaden  grey,  as  she  gazed.  It  was 
not  an  illusion  then;  not  a  miserable  hallucination.  The 
unbelievable,  the  inconceivable,  had  happened.  He  re- 
placed the  candles  with  trembling  fingers  and  sat  down. 
18 


The  Return 

'Well,'  he  said,  'what  is  it  really ;  what  is  it  really,  Sheila  ? 
What  on  earth  are  we  to  do  ?' 

'Is  the  door  locked  ?'  she  whispered.  He  nodded.  With 
eyes  fixed  stirlessly  on  his  face,  Sheila  unsteadily  seated 
herself,  a  little  out  of  the  candlelight,  in  the  shadow. 
Lawford  rose  and  put  the  key  of  the  door  on  his  wife's 
little  rose-wood  prayer-desk  at  her  elbow,  and  deliberately 
sat  down  again. 

'You  said  "a  fit"— where?' 

'I  suppose — is — is  it  very  different — hopeless?  You 
will  understand  my  being  .  .  .  O  Sheila,  what  am  I  to 
do?'  His  wife  sat  perfectly  still,  watching  him  with  un- 
flinching attention. 

'You  gave  me  to  understand — "a  nervous  fit" ;  where  ?' 

Lawford  took  a  deep  breath,  and  quietly  faced  her 
again.  'In  the  old  churchyard,  Widderstone ;  I  was  look- 
ing at — at  the  gravestones.' 

'A  fit;  in  the  old  churchyard,  Widderstone — you  were 
"looking  at  the  gravestones"?' 

Lawford  shut  his  mouth.  'I  suppose  so — a  fit,'  he 
said  presently.  'My  heart  went  a  little  queer,  and  I  sat 
down  and  fell  into  a  kind  of  doze — a  stupor,  I  suppose. 
I  don't  remember  anything  more.  And  then  I  woke ;  like 
this.' 

'How  do  you  know?' 

'How  do  I  know  what  ?' 

'"Like  that"?' 

He  turned  slowly  towards  the  looking-glass.  'Why, 
here  I  am !' 

She  gazed  at  him  steadily;  and  a  hard,  incredulous, 
almost  cunning  glint  came  into  her  wide  blue  eyes.  She 
took  up  the  key  carelessly,  glanced  at  it ;  glanced  at  him. 

19 


The  Return 

'It  has  made  me — I  mean  the  first  shock,  you  know — it 
has  made  me  a  little  faint.'  She  walked  slowly,  deliber- 
ately to  the  door,  and  unlocked  it.  Til  get  a  little  sal 
volatile.'  She  softly  drew  out  the  key,  and  without  once 
removing  her  eyes  from  his  face,  opened  the  door  and 
pushed  the  key  noiselessly  in  on  the  other  side.  'Please 
stay  there;  I  won't  be  a  minute.' 

Lawford's  face  smiled — a  rather  desperate,  yet  for  all 
that  a  patient,  resolute  smile.  'Oh  yes,  of  course,'  he 
said,  almost  to  himself,  'I  had  not  foreseen — at  least — you 
must  do  precisely  what  you  please,  Sheila.  You  were 
going  to  lock  me  in.  You  will,  however,  before  taking 
any  final  step,  please  think  over  what  it  will  entail.  I  did 
not  think  you  would,  after  such  proof,  in  this  awful 
trouble — I  did  not  think  you  would  simply  disbelieve  me, 
Sheila.  Who  else  is  there  to  help  me?  You  have  the 
letter  in  your  hand.  Isn't  that  sufficient  proof?  It  was 
overwhelming  proof  to  me.  And  even  I  doubted  too; 
doubted  myself.  But  never  mind;  why  I  should  have 
dreamed  you  would  believe  me ;  or  taken  this  awful  thing 
differently,  I  don't  know.  It's  rather  awful  to  have  to 
go  on  alone.  But  there,  think  it  over.  I  shall  not  stir 
until  I  hear  the  voices.  And  then:  honestly,  Sheila,  I 
couldn't  face  quite  that.  I'd  sooner  give  up  altogether. 
Any  proof  you  can  think  of — I  will  .  .  .  O  God,  I  can- 
not bear  it !'  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands ;  but  in 
a  moment  looked  up,  unmoved  once  more.  'Why,  for 
that  matter,'  he  added  slowly,  and,  as  it  were,  with  in- 
finite pains,  a  faint  thin  smile  again  stealing  into  his  face, 
'I  think,'  he  turned  wearily  to  the  glass,  'I  think,  it's  almost 
an  improvement !' 

Something  deep  in  those  dark  clear  pupils,  out  of  that 

20 


The  Return 

lean  adventurous  face,  gleamed  back  at  him,  the  distant 
flash  of  a  heliograph,  as  it  were,  height  to  height,  flashing 
'Courage!'  He  shuddered,  and  shut  his  eyes.  'But  I 
would  really  rather,'  he  added  in  a  quiet  childlike  way, 
'I  would  really  rather,  Sheila,  you  left  me  alone  now.' 

His  wife  stood  irresolute.  'I  understand  you  to  ex- 
plain,' she  said,  'that  you  went  out  of  this  house,  just 
your  usual  self,  this  afternoon,  for  a  walk ;  that  for  some 
reason  you  went  to  Widderstone — "to  read  the  tomb- 
stones," that  you  had  a  heart  attack,  or,  as  you  said  at 
first,  a  fit,  that  you  fell  into  a  stupor,  and  came  home  like — 
like  this.  Am  I  likely  to  believe  all  that?  Am  I  likely  to 
believe  such  a  story  as  that  ?  Whoever  you  are,  whoever 
you  may  be,  is  it  likely  ?  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid.  I 
thought  at  first  it  was  some  silly  practical  joke.  I  thought 
that  at  first.'  She  paused,  but  no*  answer  came.  'Well, 
I  suppose  in  a  civilised  country  there  is  a  remedy  even  for 
a  joke  as  wicked  as  that.' 

Lawford  listened  patiently.  'She  is  pretending;  she 
is  trying  me;  she  is  feeling  her  way,'  he  kept  repeating 
to  himself.  'She  knows  I  am  I,  but  hasn't  the  courage. 
...  Let  her  talk !' 

'I  shall  leave  the  door  open,'  Sheila  continued.  'I  am 
not,  as  you  no  doubt  very  naturally  assumed — I  am  not 
going  to  do  anything  either  senseless  or  heedless.  I  am 
merely  going  to  ask  your  brother  Cecil  to  come  in,  if  he  is 
at  home,  and  if  not,  no  doubt  our  old  friend  Mr  Mont- 
gomery would — would  help  us.'  Her  scrutiny  was  still 
and  concentrated,  like  that  of  a  cat  above  a  mouse's  hole. 

Lawford  sat  crouched  together  in  the  candle-light.  'By 
all  means,  Sheila,'  he  said  slowly  choosing  his  words,  'if 
you  think  poor  old  Cecil,  who  next  January  will  have  been 

21 


The  Return 

three  years  in  his  grave,  will  be  of  any  use  in  our  diffi- 
culty. Who  Mr  Montgomery  is  .  .  .'  His  voice 
dropped  in  utter  weariness.  'You  did  it  very  well,  my 
dear/  he  added  softly. 

Sheila  gently  closed  the  door  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 
He  heard  her  softly  crying,  he  heard  the  bed  shaken  with 
her  sobs.  But  a  slow  glance  towards  the  steady  candle- 
flames  restrained  him.  He  let  her  cry  on  alone.  When 
she  had  become  a  little  more  composed  he  stood  up.  'You 
have  had  no  dinner,'  he  managed  to  blurt  out  at  last,  'you 
will  be  faint.  It's  useless  to  talk,  even  to  think,  any  more 
to-night.  Leave  me  to  myself  for  a  while.  Don't  look 
at  me  any  more.  Perhaps  I  can  sleep :  perhaps  if  I  sleep 
it  will  come  right  again.  When  the  servants  are  gone  up, 
I  will  come  down.  Just  let  me  have  some — some  medical 
book,  or  other;  and  some  more  candles.  Don't  think, 
Sheila ;  don't  even  think !' 

Sheila  paid  him  no  attention  for  a  while.  'You  tell  me 
not  to  think,'  she  began,  in  a  low,  almost  listless  voice; 
'why — I  wonder  I  am  in  my  right  mind.  And  "eat"! 
How  can  you  have  the  heartlessness  to  suggest  it?  You 
don't  seem  in  the  least  to  realise  what  you  say.  You  seem 
to  have  lost  all — all  consciousness.  I  quite  agree,  it  is  use- 
less for  me  to  burden  you  with  my  company  while  you 
are  in  your  present  condition  of  mind.  But  you  will  at 
least  promise  me  that  you  won't  take  any  further  steps  in 
this  awful  business/  She  could  not,  try  as  she  would, 
bring  herself  again  to  look  at  him.  She  rose  softly, 
paused  a  moment  with  sidelong  eyes,  then  turned  deliber- 
ately towards  the  door,  'What,  what  have  I  done  to  de- 
serve all  this  ?' 

From  behind  her  that  voice,  so  extraordinarily  like — 
22 


The  Return 

and  yet  in  some  vague  fashion  more  arresting,  more 
resonant  than — her  husband's,  broke  incredibly  out  once 
more.  'You  will  please  leave  the  key,  Sheila.  I  am  ill, 
but  I  am  not  yet  in  the  padded  room.  And  please  under- 
stand, I  take  no  further  steps  in  "this  awful  business" 
until  I  hear  a  strange  voice  in  the  house.'  Sheila  paused, 
but  the  quiet  voice  rang  in  her  ear,  desperately  yet  con- 
vincingly. She  took  the  key  out  of  the  lock,  placed 
it  on  the  bed,  and  with  a  sigh,  that  was  not  quite  without 
a  hint  of  relief  in  its  misery,  she  furtively  extinguished 
the  gas-light  on  the  landing  and  rustled  downstairs. 

She  speedily  returned.  'I  have  brought  the  book.' 
she  said  hastily.  'I  could  only  find  the  one  volume.  I 
have  said  you  have  taken  a  fresh  chill.  No  one  will  dis- 
turb you.' 

Law  ford  took  the  book  without  a  word.  And  once 
more,  with  eyes  stonily  averted,  his  wife  left  him  to  his 
own  company  and  that  of  the  face  in  the  glass. 

When  completely  deserted,  Law  ford  with  fumbling 
fingers  opened  Quain's  'Dictionary  of  Medicine.'  He  had 
never  had  much  curiosity,  and  had  always  hated  what  he 
disbelieved,  but  none  the  less  he  had  heard  occasionally 
of  absurd  and  questionable  experiments.  He  remem- 
bered even  to  have  glanced  over  reports  of  cases  in  the 
newspapers  concerning  disappearances,  loss  of  memory, 
dual  personality.  Cranks  ...  Oh  yes,  he  thought  now, 
with  a  sense  of  cold  humiliating  relief,  there  had  been 
such  cases  as  his  before.  They  were  no  doubt  curable. 
They  must  be  comparatively  common  in  America — that 
land  of  jangled  nerves.  Possibly  bromide,  rest,  a  battery. 
But  Quain,  it  seemed,  shared  his  prejudices,  at  least 
in  this  edition,  or  had  hidden  away  all  such  apocryphal 

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matter  beneath  technical  terms,  where  no  sensible  man 
could  find  it,  'Besides,'  he  muttered  angrily,  'what's  the 
good  of  your  one  volume?'  He  flung  it  down  and  strode 
to  the  bed,  and  rang  the  bell.  Then  suddenly  recollecting 
himself,  he  paused  and  listened.  There  came  a  tap  on 
the  door.  'Is  that  you,  Sheila?'  he  called,  doubtfully. 

'No,  sir,  it's  me,'  came  the  answer. 

'Oh,  don't  trouble;  I  only  wanted  to  speak  to  your 
mistress.  It's  all  right.' 

"Mrs  Lawford  has  gone  out,  sir,'  replied  the  voice. 

'Gone  out?' 

'Yes,  sir ;  she  told  me  not  to  mention  it ;  but  I  suppose 
as  you  asked ' 

'Oh,  that's  all  right;  never  mind;  I  didn't  ring.'  He 
stood  with  face  uplifted,  thinking. 

'Can  I  do  anything,  sir?'  came  the  faint,  nervous  ques- 
tion after  a  long  pause. 

'One  moment,  Ada/  he  called  in  a  loud  voice.  He 
took  out  his  pocket-book,  sat  down,  and  scribbled  a 
little  note.  He  hardly  noticed  how  changed  his  hand- 
writing was — the  clear  round  letters  crabbed  and  irreg- 
ular. 

'Are  you  there,  Ada?'  he  called.  'I  am  slipping  a  note 
beneath  the  door;  just  draw  back  the  mat;  that's  it.  Take 
it  at  once,  please,  to  Mr  Critchett's,  and  be  sure  to  wait 
for  an  answer.  Then  come  back  direct  to  me,  up  here. 
I  don't  think,  Ada,  your  mistress  believes  much  in  Crit- 
chett;  but  I  have  fully  explained  what  I  want.  He  has 
made  me  up  many  prescriptions.  Explain  that  to  his 
assistant  if  he  is  not  there.  Go  at  once,  and  you  will  be 
back  before  she  is.  I  should  be  so  very  much  obliged,  tell 
him.  "Mr  Arthur  Lawford."  ' 
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The  minutes  slowly  drifted  by.  He  sat  quite  still  in 
the  clear  untroubled  light,  waiting  in  the  silence  of  the 
empty  house.  And  for  the  first  time  he  was  confronted 
with  the  cold  incredible  horror  of  his  ordeal.  Who 
would  believe,  who  could  believe,  that  behind  this  strange 
and  awful,  yet  how  simple  mask,  lay  himself?  What 
test;  what  heaped-up  evidence  of  identity  would  break 
it  down?  It  was  all  a  loathsome  ignominy.  It  was 
utterly  absurd.  It  was 

Suddenly,  with  a  kind  of  ape-like  cunning,  he  deliber- 
ately raised  a  long  lean  forefinger  and  pointed  it  at  the 
shadowy  crystal  of  the  looking-glass.  Perhaps  he  was 
dead,  was  really  and  indeed  changed  in  body,  was  fated 
really  and  indeed  to  change  in  soul,  into  That.  'It's  that 
beastly  voice  again,'  Law  ford  cried  out  loud,  looking 
vacantly  at  his  upstretched  finger.  And  then,  hand  and 
arm,  not  too  willingly,  as  it  were,  obeyed;  relaxed  and 
fell  to  his  side.  'You  must  keep  a  tight  hold,  old  man/ 
he  muttered  to  himself.  'Once,  once  you  lose  yourself 
— the  least  symptom  of  that — the  least  symptom,  and 
it's  all  up!'  And  the  fools,  the  heartless,  preposterous 
fools  had  brought  him  one  volume! 

When  on  earth  was  Ada  coming  back?  She  was  lag- 
ging on  purpose.  She  was  in  the  conspiracy  too.  Oh, 
it  should  be  a  lesson  to  Sheila!  Oh,  if  only  daylight 
would  come!  'What  are  you  going  to  do — to  do — to 
DO?'  He  rose  once  more  and  paced  his  silent  cage. 
To  and  fro,  thinking  no  more ;  just  using  his  eyes,  com- 
pelling them  to  wander  from  picture  to  picture,  bedpost 
to  bedpost;  now  counting  aloud  his  footsteps;  now 
humming;  only,  only  to  keep  himself  from  thinking. 
At  last  he  took  out  a  drawer  and  actually  began  arrang- 

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ing  its  medley  of  contents;  ties,  letters,  studs,  concert 
and  theatre  programmes — all  higgledy-piggledy.  And  in 
the  midst  of  this  childish  strategem  he  heard  a  faint 
sound,  as  of  heavy  water  trickling  from  a  height.  He 
turned.  A  thief  was  in  one  of  the  candles.  It  was 
guttering  out.  He  would  be  left  in  darkness.  He 
turned  hastily  without  a  moment's  heed,  to  call  for  light, 
flung  the  door  open  and  full  in  the  flare  of  a  lamp, 
illuminating  her  pale  forehead  and  astonished  face  be- 
neath her  black  straw  hat,  stood  face  to  face  with  Ada. 

With  one  swift  dexterous  movement  he  drew  the  door 
to  after  him,  looking  straight  into  her  almost  colourless 
steady  eyes.  'Ah/  he  said  instantly,  in  a  high  faint  voice, 
'the  powder,  thank  you;  yes,  Mr  Lawford's  powder; 
thank  you,  thank  you.  He  must  be  kept  absolutely  quiet 
• — absolutely.  Mrs  Lawford  is  following.  Please  tell  her 
that  I  am  here,  when  she  returns.  Mr  Critchett  was  in, 
then?  Thank  you.  Extreme,  extreme  silence,  please.' 
Again  that  knotted,  melodramatic  finger  raised  itself  on 
high ;  and  within  that  lean,  cadaverous  body  the  soul  of  its 
lodger  quailed  at  this  spectral  boldness.  But  it  was 
triumphant.  The  maid  at  once  left  him  and  went  down- 
stairs. He  heard  faint  voices  in  muffled  consultation. 
And  in  a  moment  Sheila's  silks  rustled  once  more  on  the 
staircase.  Lawford  put  down  the  lamp,  and  watched  her 
deliberately  close  the  door. 

'What  does  this  mean?'  she  began  swiftly,  'I  under- 
stand that — Ada  tells  me  a  stranger  is  here;  giving 
orders,  directions.  Who  is  he?  where  is  he?  You 
bound  yourself  on  your  solemn  promise  not  to  stir  till 
I  returned.  You  .  .  .  How  can  I,  how  can  we  get  de- 
cently through  this  horrible  business  if  you  are  so 
26 


The  Return 

wretchedly  indiscreet?  You  sent  Ada  to  the  chemist's. 
What  for?  What  for?  I  say.' 

Lawford  watched  his  wife  with  an  almost  extraneous 
interest.  She  was  certainly  extremely  interesting  from 
that  point  of  view,  that  very  novel  point  of  view.  'It's 
quite  useless/  he  said,  'to  get  in  the  least  nervous  or 
hysterical.  I  don't  care  for  the  darkness  just  now. 
That  was  all.  Tell  the  girl  I  am  a  strange  doctor — 
Dr  Simon's  new  partner.  You  are  clever  at  conven- 
tionalities, Sheila.  Invent!  I  said  our  patient  must  be 
kept  quiet — I  really  think  he  must.  That  is  all,  so  far 
as  Ada  is  concerned.  .  .  .  What  on  earth  else  are  we  to 
say?'  he  broke  out.  'That,  for  the  present  to  everybody, 
is  our  only  possible  story.  It  will  give  us  what  we 
must  have — time.  And  next — where  is  the  second  vol- 
ume of  Quain?  I  want  that.  And  next — why  have 
you  broken  faith  with  me?'  Mrs  Lawford  sat  down. 
This  sudden  and  baffling  outburst  had  stupefied  her. 

'I  can't,  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  what  you  say. 
And  as  for  having  broken  faith,  as  you  call  it,  would 
any  wife,  would  any  sane  woman  face  what  you  have 
brought  on  us,  a  situation  like  this,  without  seeking  ad- 
vice and  help?  Mr  Bethany  will  be  perfectly  dis- 
creet— if  he  thinks  discretion  desirable.  He  is  the  only 
available  friend  we  have  close  enough  to  ask  at  once. 
And  things  of  this  kind  are,  I  suppose,  if  anybody's  con- 
cern, his.  It's  certain  to  leak  out.  Everybody  will 
hear  of  it.  Don't  flatter  yourself  you  are  going  to 
hush  up  a  thing  like  this  for  long.  You  can't  keep 
living  skeletons  in  a  cupboard.  You  think  only  of  your- 
self, only  of  your  own  misfortune.  But  who's  to  know, 
pray,  that  you  really  are  my  husband — if  you  are?  The 

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sooner  I  get  the  vicar  on  my  side  the  better  for  us  both. 
Who  in  the  whole  of  the  parish — I  ask  you — and  you  must 
have  the  sense  left  to  see  that — who  will  believe  that 
a  respectable  man,  a  gentleman,  a  Churchman,  would 
deliberately  go  out  to  seek  an  afternoon's  amusement 
in  a  poky  little  country  churchyard?  Why,  apart  from 
everything  else,  that  was  absolutely  mad  to  start  with. 
Can  you  really  wonder  at  the  result?' 

Probably  because  she  still  steadfastly  refused  to  look 
at  him,  her  memory  kept  losing  its  hold  on  the  appalling 
fact  facing  them.  She  realised  fully  only  that  she 
was  in  a  great,  unwarrantable,  and  insurmountable  diffi- 
culty, but  until  she  actually  lifted  her  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment she  had  not  fully  realised  what  that  difficulty  was. 
She  got  up  with  a  sudden  and  horrible  nausea.  'One 
moment,'  she  said,  "I  will  see  if  the  servants  have 
gone  to  bed.' 

That  long  saturnine  face,  behind  which  Law  ford  lay 
in  a  dull  and  desperate  ambush,  smiled.  Something 
partaking  of  its  clay,  some  reflex  ghost  of  its  rather  re- 
markable features,  was  even  a  little  amused  at  Sheila. 

She  returned  in  a  moment,  and  stood  in  profile  in 
the  doorway.  'Will  you  come  down?'  she  remarked 
distantly. 

'One  moment,  Sheila,'  Lawford  began  miserably. 
'Before  we  take  this  irrevocable  step,  a  step  I  implore 
you  to  postpone  awhile — for  what  comes,  I  suppose,  may 
go — what  precisely  have  you  told  the  vicar?  I  must  in 
fairness  know  that.' 

'In  fairness,'  she  began  ironically,  and  suddenly 
broke  off.  Her  husband  had  turned  the  flame  of  the 
lamp  low  down  in  the  vacant  room  behind  them ;  the  cor- 
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The  Return 

ridor  was  lit  obscurely  by  the  chandelier  far  down  in 
the  hall  below.  A  faint,  inexplicable  dread  fell  softly 
and  coldly  on  her  heart.  'Have  you  no  trust  in  me?' 
she  murmured  a  little  bitterly.  'I  have  simply  told  him 
the  truth.' 

They  softly  descended  the  stairs;  she  first,  the  dark 
figure  following  close  behind  her. 


Chapter  Three 


MR  BETHANY  sat  awaiting  them  in  the 
dining-room,  a  large,  heavily- furnished  room 
with  a  great  benign  looking-glass  on  the  mantel- 
piece, a  marble  clock,  and  with  rich  old  damask  curtains. 
Fleecy  silver  hair  was  all  that  was  visible  of  their  visitor 
when  they  entered.  But  Mr  Bethany  rose  out  of  his 
chair  when  he  heard  them,  and  with  a  little  jerk,  turned 
sharply  round.  Thus  it  was  that  the  gold-spectacled 
vicar  and  Lawford  first  confronted  each  other,  the  one 
brightly  illuminated,  the  other  framed  in  the  gloom  of  the 
doorway.  Mr  Bethany's  first  scrutiny  was  timid  and 
courteous,  but  beneath  it  he  tried  to  be  keen,  and  himself 
hastened  round  the  table  almost  at  a  trot,  to  obtain,  as 
delicately  as  possible,  a  closer  view.  But  Lawford, 
having  shut  the  door  behind  him,  had  gone  straight  to 
the  fire  and  seated  himself,  leaning  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Mr  Bethany  smiled  faintly,  waved  his  hand  almost  as  if 
in  blessing,  but  certainly  in  peace,  and  tapped  Mrs  Law- 
ford  into  the  chair  upon  the  other  side.  But  he  himself 
remained  standing. 

'Mrs  Lawford  has,  I  declare,  been  telling  family 
secrets,'  he  began,  and  paused,  peering.  'But  there,  you 
will  forgive  an  old  friend's  intrusion — this  little  con- 
fidence about  a  change,  my  dear  fellow — about  a  ramble 
and  a  change?'  He  sat  down,  put  up  his  kind  little 
puckered  face  and  peered  again  at  Lawford,  and  then 
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very  hastily  at  his  wife.  But  all  her  attention  was  cen- 
tred on  the  bowed  figure  opposite  to  her.  Lawford 
responded  to  this  cautious  advance  without  raising  his 
head. 

'You  do  not  wish  me  to  repeat  all  that  my  wife  tells 
me  she  has  told  you?' 

'Dear  me,  no,'  said  Mr  Bethany  cheerfully,  'I  wish 
nothing,  nothing,  old  friend.  You  must  not  burden 
yourself  with  me.  If  I  may  be  of  any  help,  here  I 
am.  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  no,  .  .  .'  he  paused,  with  blinking  eyes, 
but  wits  still  shrewd  and  alert.  Why  doesn't  the 
man  raise  his  head?  he  thought.  A  mere  domestic 
dispute ! 

'I  thought,'  he  went  on  ruminatingly,  'I  thought  on 
Tuesday,  yes,  on  Tuesday,  that  you  weren't  looking  quite 
the  thing.  Indeed,  I  remarked  on  it.  But  now,  I  under- 
stand from  Mrs  Lawford  that  the  malady  has  taken  a 
graver  turn — eh,  Lawford,  an  heretical  turn?  I  hear 
you  have  been  wandering  from  the  true  fold.'  Mr 
Bethany  leaned  forward  with  what  might  be  described 
as  a  very  large  smile  in  a  very  small  compass.  'And  that, 
of  course,  entailed  instant  retribution.'  He  broke  off 
solemnly.  'I  know  Widderstone  churchyard  well;  a 
most  verdant  and  beautiful  spot.  The  late  rector,  a  Mr 
Strickland,  was  a  very  old  friend  of  mine.  And  his  wife, 
dear  good  Alicia,  used  to  set  out  her  babies,  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  sleep  and  to  play  there,  twenty,  dear  me,  perhaps 
twenty-five  years  ago.  But  I  did  not  know,  my  dear 
Lawford,  that  you '  and  suddenly,  without  an  in- 
stant's warning,  something  seemed  to  shout  at  him, 
'Look,  look!  He  is  looking  at  you!'  He  stopped,  fal- 
tered, and  a  slight  warmth  came  into  his  face.  'And — 


The  Return 

and  you  were  taken  ill  there?'  His  voice  had  fallen  flat 
and  faint. 

'I  fell  asleep — or  something  of  that  sort,'  came  the 
stubborn  reply. 

'Yes,'  said  Mr  Bethany,  brightly,  'so  your  wife  was 
saying.  "Fell  asleep,"  so  have  I  too — scores  of  times'; 
he  beamed,  with  beads  of  sweat  glistening  on  his  fore- 
head. 'And  then?  I'm  not,  I'm  not  persisting?' 

'Then  I  woke;  refreshed,  I  think,  as  it  seemed — I  felt 
much  better  and  came  home.' 

'Ah,  yes/  said  his  visitor.  And  after  that  there  was  a 
long,  brightly  lit,  intense  pause ;  at  the  end  of  which  Law- 
ford  raised  his  face  and  again  looked  firmly  at  his  friend. 

Mr  Bethany  was  now  a  shrunken  old  man;  he  sat 
perfectly  still,  his  head  craned  a  little  forward,  and  his 
veined  hands  clutching  his  bent,  spare  knees. 

There  wasn't  the  least  sign  of  devilry,  or  out-facing- 
ness,  or  insolence  in  that  lean  shadowy  steady  head;  and 
yet  he  himself  was  compelled  to  sidle  his  glance  away,  so 
much  the  face  shook  him.  He  closed  his  eyes,  too,  as  a 
cat  does  after  exchanging  too  direct  a  scrutiny  with  human 
eyes.  He  put  out  towards,  and  withdrew,  a  groping 
hand  from  Mrs  Lawford. 

'Is  it,'  came  a  voice  from  somewhere,  'is  it  a  great 
change,  sir?  I  thought  perhaps  I  may  have  exaggerated 
—candle-light,  you  know/ 

Mr  Bethany  remained  still  and  silent,  striving  to  en- 
tertain one  thought  at  a  time.  His  lips  moved  as  if  he 
were  talking  to  himself.  And  again  it  was  Lawford's 
faltering  voice  that  broke  the  silence.  'You  see/  he  said, 
'I  have  never  ...  no  fit,  or  anything  of  that  kind  before. 
I  remember  on  Tuesday  ...  oh  yes,  quite  well.  I  did 
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The  Return 

feel  seedy,  very.  And  we  talked,  did  n't  we  ? — Harvest 
Festival,  Mrs  Winn's  flowers,  the  new  offertory-bags, 
and  all  that.  For  God's  sake,  Vicar,  it  is  not  as  bad  as — 
as  they  make  out?' 

Mr  Bethany  woke  with  a  start.  He  leaned  forward, 
and  stretched  out  a  long  black  wrinkled  sleeve,  just 
managing  to  reach  far  enough  to  tap  Lawford's  knee. 
'Don't  worry,  don't  worry,'  he  said  soothingly.  'We  be- 
lieve, we  believe.' 

It  was,  none  the  less,  a  sheer  act  of  faith.  He  took 
off  his  spectacles  and  took  out  his  handkerchief.  'What 
we  must  do,  eh,  my  dear,'  he  half  turned  to  Mrs  Lawford, 
'what  we  must  do  is  to  consult,  yes,  consult  together.  And 
later — we  must  have  advice — medical  advice ;  unless,  as  I 
very  much  suspect,  it  is  merely  a  little  quite  temporary 
physical  aberration.  Science,  I  am  told,  is  making  great 
strides,  experimenting,  groping  after  things  «which  no  sane 
man  has  ever  dreamed  of  before — without  being  burned 
alive  for  it.  What's  in  a  name  ?  Nerves,  especially,  Law- 
ford.' 

Mrs  Lawford  sat  perfectly  still,  absorbedly  listening, 
turning  her  face  first  this  way,  then  that,  to  each  speaker 
in  turn.  'That  is  what  I  thought,'  she  said,  and  cast  one 
fleeting  glance  across  at  the  fireplace,  'but ' 

The  little  old  gentleman  turned  sharply  with  half-blind 
eyes,  and  lips  tight  shut.  'I  think,'  he  said,  with  a  kind 
of  austere  humour,  'I  think,  do  you  know,  I  see  no  "but."  ' 
He  paused  as  if  to  catch  the  echo  and  added,  'It's  our 
only  course.'  He  continued  to  polish  round  and  round  his 
glasses.  Mrs  Lawford  rather  magnificently  rose. 

'Perhaps  if  I  were  to  leave  you  together  awhile?  I 
shall  not  be  far  off.  It  is,'  she  explained,  as  if  into  a  huge 

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The  Return 

vacuum,  'it  is  a  terrible  visitation.'  She  moved  gravely 
round  the  table  and  very  softly  and  firmly  closed  the  door 
after  her. 

Lawford  took  a  deep  breath.  'Of  course,'  he  said, 
'you  realise  my  wife  does  not  believe  me.  She  thinks,' 
he  explained  naively,  as  if  to  himself,  'she  thinks  I  am  an 
imposter.  Goodness  knows  what  she  does  think.  I  can't 
think  much  myself — for  long!' 

The  vicar  rubbed  busily  on.  'I  have  found,  Lawford," 
he  said  smoothly,  'that  in  all  real  difficulties  the  only 
feasible  plan  is — is  to  face  the  main  issue.  The  others 
right  themselves.  Now,  to  take  a  plunge  into  your  gen- 
erosity. You  have  let  me  in  far  enough  to  make  it  im- 
possible for  me  to  get  out — may  I  hear  then  exactly  the 
whole  story?  All  that  I  know  now,  so  far  as  I  could 
gather  from  your  wife,  poor  soul,  is  of  course  inconceiv- 
able ;  that  you  went  out  one  man  and  came  home  another. 
You  will  understand,  my  dear  man,  I  am  speaking,  as  it 
were,  by  rote.  God  has  mercifully  ordered  that  the 
human  brain  works  slowly;  first  the  blow,  hours  after- 
wards the  bruise.  Oh,  dear  me,  that  man  Hume1 — "on 
miracles" — positively  amazing!  So  that  too,  please,  you 
will  be  quite  clear  about.  Credo — not  quia  impossible  est, 
but  because  you,  Lawford,  have  told  me.  Now  then,  if 
it  won't  be  too  wearisome  to  you,  the  whole  story.'  He 
sat,  lean  and  erect  in  his  big  chair,  a  hand  resting  loosely 
on  each  knee,  in  one  spectacles,  in  the  other  a  dangling 
pocket  handkerchief.  And  the  dark,  sallow,  aquiline,  for- 
midable figure,  with  its  oddly  changing  voice,  re-told  the 
whole  story  from  the  beginning. 

'You  were  aware  then  of  nothing  different,  I  under- 
stand, until  you  actually  looked  into  the  glass?' 
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The  Return 

'Only  vaguely.  I  mean  that  after  waking  I  felt  much 
better,  more  alert.  And  my  thoughts ' 

'Ah,  yes,  your  thoughts?' 

'I  hardly  know — oh,  clear  as  if  I  had  had  a  real  long 
rest.  It  was  just  like  being  a  boy  again.  Influenza 
dispirits  one  so.' 

Mr  Bethany  gazed  without  stirring.  'And  yet,  you 
know/  he  said,  'I  can  hardly  believe,  I  mean  conceive, 

how You  have  been  taking  no  drugs,  no  quackery, 

Law  ford  ?' 

'I  never  dose  myself,'  said  Lawford,  with  sombre  pride. 

'God  bless  me,  that's  Lawford  to  the  echo,'  thought 

his  visitor.  'And  before ?'  he  went  on  gently;  'I 

really  cannot  conceive,  you  see,  how  a  mere  fit  could  .  .  . 
Before  you  sat  down  you  were  quite  alone?'  He  stuck 
out  his  head.  'There  was  nobody  with  you  ?' 

'With  me?    Oh  no,'  came  the  soft  answer. 

'What  had  you  been  thinking  of?  In  these  days  of 
faith-cures,  and  hypnotism,  and  telepathy,  and  sublimin- 
alities — why,  the  simple  old  world  grows  very  confusing. 
But  rarely,  very  rarely  novel.  You  were  thinking,  you 
say;  do  you  remember,  perhaps,  just  the  drift?' 

'Well,'  began  Lawford  ruminatingly,  'there  was  some- 
thing curious  even  then,  perhaps.  I  remember,  for  in- 
stance, I  knelt  down  to  read  an  old  tombstone.  There 
was  a  little  seat — no  back.  And  an  epitaph.  The  sun 
was  just  setting;  some  French  name.  And  there  was  a 
long  jagged  crack  in  the  stone,  like  the  black  line  you 
know  one  sees  after  lightning,  I  mean  it's  as  clear  as  that 
even  now,  in  memory.  Oh  yes,  I  remember.  And  then, 
I  suppose,  came  the  sleep — stupid,  sluggish:  and  then; 
well,  here  I  am.' 

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The  Return 

'You  are  absolutely  certain,  then,'  persisted  Mr  Bethany 
almost  querulously,  'there  was  no  living  creature  near 
you?  Bless  me,  Lawford,  I  see  no  unkindness  in  believ- 
ing what  the  Bible  itself  relates.  There  are  powers  super- 
natural. Saul,  and  so  on.  We  are  all  convinced  of  that. 
No  one  ?' 

'I  remember  distinctly,'  replied  Lawford,  in  a  calm, 
stubborn  voice,  'I  looked  up  all  around  me,  while  I  was 
kneeling  there,  and  there  wasn't  a  soul  to  be  seen.  Be- 
cause, you  see,  it  even  then  occurred  to  me  that  it  would 
have  looked  rather  queer — my  wandering  about  like  that, 
I  mean.  Facing  me  there  were  some  cypress-trees,  and 
beyond,  a  low  sunken  fence,  and  then,  just  open  country. 
Up  above  there  were  the  gravestones  toppling  down  the 
hill,  where  I  had  just  strolled  down,  and  sunshine!'  He 
suddenly  threw  up  his  hand.  'Oh,  marvellous!  stream- 
ing in  gold — flaming,  like  God's  own  ante-chamber.' 

There  was  a  very  pregnant  pause.  Mr  Bethany  shrunk 
back  a  little  into  his  chair.  His  lips  moved;  he  folded 
his  spectacles. 

'Yes,  yes,'  he  said.  And  then  very  quietly  he  stole  one 
mole-like  look  into  his  sidesman's  face. 

'What  is  Dr  Simon's  number?'  he  said.  Lawford  was 
gazing  gloomily  into  the  fire.  'Oh,  Annandale,'  he  re- 
plied absently.  'I  don't  know  the  number.' 

'Do  you  believe  in  him?  Your  wife  mentioned  him. 
Is  he  clever  ?' 

'Oh,  he's  new,'  said  Lawford;  'old  James  was  our 
doctor.  He — he  killed  my  father.'  He  laughed  out 
shamefacedly. 

'A  sound,  lovable  man,'  said  Mr  Bethany,  'one  of  the 
kindest  men  I  ever  knew ;  and  a  very  old  friend  of  mine.' 
36 


The  Return 

And  suddenly  the  dark  face  turned  with  a  shudder 
from  the  fire,  and  spoke  in  a  low  trembling  voice.  'Only 
one  thing1 — only  one  thing — my  sanity,  my  sanity.  If 
once  I  forget,  who  will  believe  me?'  He  thrust  his  long 
lean  fingers  beneath  his  coat.  'And  mad,'  he  added;  'I 
would  sooner  die.' 

Mr  Bethany  deliberately  adjusted  his  spectacles.  'May 
I,  may  I  experiment?'  he  said  boldly.  There  came  a  tap 
on  the  door. 

'Bless  me,'  said  the  vicar,  taking  out  his  watch,  'it  is 
a  quarter  to  twelve.  'Yes,  yes,  Mrs  Lawford,'  he  trot- 
ted round  to  the  door.  'We  are  beginning  to  see  light — 
a  ray!' 

'But  I — /  can  see  in  the  dark,'  whispered  Lawford,  as 
if  at  a  cue,  turning  with  an  inscrutable  smile  to  the  fire. 

The  vicar  came  again,  wrapped  up  in  a  little  tight  grey 
great-coat,  and  a  white  silk  muffler.  He  looked  up  un- 
flinching into  Lawford's  face,  and  tears  stood  in  his  eyes. 
'Patience,  patience,  my  dear  fellow/  he  repeated  gravely, 
squeezing  his  hand.  'And  rest,  complete  rest,  is  imper- 
ative. Just  till  the  first  thing  to-morrow-  And  till 
then,'  he  turned  to  Mrs  Lawford,  where  she  stood  looking 
in  at  the  doorway,  'oh  yes,  complete  quiet ;  and  caution !' 

Mrs  Lawford  let  him  out.  He  shook  his  head  once  or 
twice,  holding  her  fingers.  'Oh  yes,'  he  whispered,  'it  is 
your  husband,  not  the  smallest  doubt.  I  tried:  for 
myself.  But  something — something  has  happened.  Don't 
fret  him  now.  Have  patience.  Oh  yes,  it  is  incredible 
...  the  change !  But  there,  the  very  first  thing  to-mor- 
row.' She  closed  the  door  gently  after  him,  and  step- 
ping softly  back  to  the  dining-room,  peered  in.  Her 
husband's  back  was  turned,  but  he  could  see  her  in  the 

37 


The  Return 

looking-glass,  stooping  a  little,  with  set  face  watching 
him,  in  the  silvery  stillness. 

'Well/  he  said,  'is  the  old '  he  doggedly  met  the 

fixed  eyes  facing  him  there,  'is  our  old  friend  gone?' 

'Yes/  said  Sheila,  'he's  gone.'  Law  ford  sighed  and 
turned  round.  'It's  useless  talking  now,  Sheila.  No 
more  questions.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  tired  I  am. 
And  my  head ' 

'What  is  wrong  with  your  head?'  inquired  his  wife 
discreetly. 

The  haggard  face  turned  gravely  and  patiently.  'Only 
one  of  my  old  headaches/  he  smiled,  'my  old  bilious 
headaches — the  hereditary  Law  ford  variety.'  But  his 
voice  fell  low  again.  'We  must  get  to  bed.' 

With  a  rather  pretty  and  childish  movement,  Sheila 
gently  drew  her  hands  across  her  silk  skirts.  'Yes, 
dear/  she  said,  'I  have  made  up  a  bed  for  you  in  the  large 
spare  room.  It  is  thoroughly  aired/  She  came  softly  in, 
hastened  over  to  a  closed  work-table  that  stood  under  the 
curtains,  and  opened  it. 

Lawford  watched  her,  utterly  expressionless,  utterly 
motionless.  He  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it  again,  still 
watching  his  wife  as  she  stooped  with  ridiculously  too 
busy  fingers,  searching  through  her  coloured  silks. 

Again  he  opened  his  mouth.  'Yes/  he  said,  and  stalked 
slowly  towards  the  door.  But  there  he  paused.  'God 
knows/  he  said,  strangely  and  meekly,  'I  am  sorry,  sorry 
for  all  this.  You  will  forgive  me,  Sheila?' 

She  looked  up  swiftly.  'It's  very  tiresome,  I  can't 
find  anywhere/  she  murmured,  'I  can't  find  anywhere  the 
— the  little  red  box  key.' 

Lawford's  cheek  turned  more  sallow  than  ever.  'You 
38 


The  Return 

are  only  pretending  to  look  for  it,'  he  said,  'to  try  me.  We 
both  know  perfectly  well  the  lock  is  broken.  Ada  broke 
it.' 

Sheila  let  fall  the  lid;  and  yet  for  a  while  her  eyes 
roved  over  it  as  if  in  violent  search  for  something.  Then 
she  turned:  'I  am  so  very  glad  the  vicar  was  at  home/ 
she  said  brightly.  'And  mind,  mind  you  rest,  Arthur. 
There's  nothing  so  bad  but  it  might  be  worse.  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  can't,  I  can't  bear  it !'  She  sat  down  in  the  chair  and 
huddled  her  face  between  her  hands,  sobbing  on  and  on, 
without  a  tear. 

Lawford  listened  and  stared  solemnly.  'Whatever  it 
may  be,  Sheila,  I  will  be  loyal,'  he  said. 

Her  sobs  hushed,  and  again  cold  horror  crept  over  her. 
Nobody  in  the  whole  world  could  have  said  that  'I  will 
be  loyal'  quite  like  that — nobody  but  Arthur.  She  stood 
up,  patting  her  hair.  'I  don't  think  my  brain  would  bear 
much  more.  It's  useless  to  talk.  If  you  will  go  up;  I 
will  put  out  the  lamp.' 


39 


Chapter  Four 


ONE  solitary  and  tall  candle  burned  on  the  great 
dressing-table.  Faint,  solitary  pictures  broke  the 
blankness  of  each  wall.  The  carpet  was  rich, 
the  bed  impressive,  and  the  basins  on  the  washstand  as 
uninviting  as  the  bed.  Lawford  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
it  in  complete  isolation.  He  sat  without  stirring,  listening 
to  his  watch  ticking  in  his  pocket.  The  china  clock  on 
the  chimney  piece  pointed  cheerfully  to  the  hour  of  dawn. 
It  was  exactly,  he  computed  carefully,  five  hours  and 
seven  minutes  fast.  Not  the  slightest  sound  broke  the 
stillness,  until  he  heard,  very,  very  softly  and  gradually, 
the  key  of  his  door  turn  in  the  oiled  wards,  and  realized 
that  he  was  a  prisoner. 

Women  were  strange  creatures.  How  often  he  had 
heard  that  said,  he  thought  lamely.  He  felt  no  anger,  no 
surprise  or  resentment,  at  the  trick.  It  was  only  to  be 
expected.  He  could  sit  on  till  morning;  easily  till  morn- 
ing. He  had  never  noticed  before  how  empty  a  well- 
furnished  room  could  seem.  It  was  his  own  room  too; 
his  best  visitors'  room.  His  father-in-law  had  slept  here, 
with  his  whiskers  on  that  pillow.  His  wife's  most 
formidable  aunt  had  been  all  night  here,  alone  with  these 
pictures.  She  certainly  was  .  .  .  'But  what  are  you  do- 
ing here?'  cried  a  voice  suddenly  out  of  his  reverie. 

He  started  up  and  stretched  himself,  and  taking  out 
the  neat  little  packet  that  the  maid  had  brought  from  the 
40 


The  Return 

chemist's,  he  drew  up  a  chair,  and  sat  down  once  more  in 
front  of  the  glass.  He  sighed  vacantly,  rose  and  lifted 
down  from  the  wall  above  the  fireplace  a  tinted  photo- 
graph of  himself  that  Sheila  had  had  enlarged  about 
twelve  years  ago.  It  was  a  brighter,  younger,  hairier,  but 
unmistakably  the  same  dull  indolent  Lawford  who  had 
ventured  into  Widderstone  churchyard  that  afternoon. 
The  cheek  was  a  little  plumper,  the  eyes  not  quite  so  full- 
lidded,  the  hair  a  little  more  precisely  parted,  the  upper 
lip  graced  with  a  small  blonde  moustache.  He  tilted  the 
portrait  into  the  candlelight,  and  compared  it  with  this 
reflection  in  the  glass  of  what  had  come  out  of  Widder- 
stone, feature  with  feature,  with  perfect  composure  and 
extreme  care.  Then  he  laid  down  the  massive  frame  on 
the  table,  and  gazed  quietly  at  the  tiny  packet. 

It  was  to  be  a  day  of  queer  experiences.  He  had  never 
before  realized  with  how  many  miracles  mere  everyday 
life  is  besieged.  Here  in  this  small  punctilious  packet 
lay  a  Sesame — a  power  of  transformation  beside  which 
the  transformation  of  that  rather  flaccid  face  of  the  noon- 
day into  this  tense,  sinister  face  of  midnight  was  but  as  a 
moving  from  house  to  house — a  change  just  as  irrevocable 
and  complete,  and  yet  so  very  normal.  Which  should  it 
be,  that,  or — his  face  lifted  itself  once  more  to  the  icelike 
gloom  of  the  looking-glass — that,  or  this? 

It  simply  gazed  back  with  a  kind  of  quizzical  pity  on  its 
lean  features  under  the  scrutiny  of  eyes  so  deep,  so 
meaningful,  so  desolate,  and  yet  so  indomitably  coura- 
geous. In  the  brain  behind  them  a  slow  and  stolid  argu- 
ment was  in  progress;  the  one  baffling  reply  on  the  one 
side  to  every  appeal  on  the  other  being  still  simply. 
'What  dreams  may  come?' 

41 


The  Return 

Those  eyes  surely  knew  something  of  dreams,  else, 
why  this  violent  and  stubborn  endeavour  to  keep  awake? 
Lawford  did  indeed  once  actually  frame  the  question, 
'But  who  the  devil  are  you?'  And  it  really  seemed  the 
eyes  perceptibly  widened  or  brightened.  The  mere  vexa- 
tion of  his  unparalleled  position.  Sheila's  pathetic  in- 
credulity, his  old  vicar's  laborious  kindness,  the  tiresome 
network  of  experience  into  which  he  would  be  dragged 
struggling  on  the  morrow,  and  on  the  morrow  after  that, 
and  after  that — the  thought  of  all  these  things  faded  for 
the  moment  from  his  mind,  lost  if  not  their  significance, 
at  least  their  instancy. 

He  simply  sat  face  to  face  with  the  sheer  difficulty  of 
living  on  at  all.  He  even  concluded  in  a  kind  of  lethargy 
that  if  nothing  had  occurred,  no  'change,'  he  might  still  be 
sitting  here,  Arthur  Bennet  Lawford,  in  his  best  visitor's 
room,  deciding  between  inscrutable  life  and  just — death. 
He  supposed  he  was  tired  out.  His  thoughts  hadn't  even 
the  energy  to  complete  themselves.  None  cared  but  him- 
self and  this — this  Silence. 

'But  what  does  it  all  mean?'  the  insistent  voice  he  was 
getting  to  know  so  well  began  tediously  inquiring  again. 
And  every  time  he  raised  his  eyes,  or,  rather, 
as  in  many  cases  it  seemed,  his  eyes  raised  themselves, 
they  saw  this  haunting  face  there — a  face  he  no  longer 
bitterly  rebelled  at,  nor  dimmed  with  scrutiny,  but  a  face 
that  was  becoming  a  kind  of  hold  on  life,  even  a  kind  of 
refuge,  an  ally.  It  was  a  face  that  might  have  come  out 
of  a  rather  flashy  book ;  or  such  as  is  revered  on  the  stage. 
'A  rotten  bad  face,'  he  whispered  at  it  in  his  own  familiar 
slang,  after  some  such  abrupt  encounter;  a  fearless, 
packed,  daring,  fascinating  face,  with  even — what? — a 
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The  Return 

spice  of  genius  in  it.  Whose  the  devil's  face  was  it? 
What  on  earth  was  the  matter?  .  .  .  'Brazen  it  out/  a 
jubilant  thought  cried  suddenly;  'follow  it  up;  play  the 
game!  give  me  just  one  opening.  Think — think  what 
I've  risked!' 

And  all  these  voices  thought  Lawford,  in  deadly  lassi- 
tude, meant  only  one  thing — insanity.  A  blazing,  im- 
potent indignation  seized  him.  He  leaned  near,  peering 
as  it  were  out  of  a  red  dusky  mist.  He  snatched  up  tfie 
china  candlestick,  and  poised  it  above  the  sardonic  re- 
flection, as  if  to  throw.  Then  slowly,  with  infinite  pains, 
he  drew  back  from  the  glass  and  replaced  the  candlestick 
on  the  table;  stuffed  his  paper  packet  into  his  pocket, 
took  off  his  boots  and  threw  himself  on  to  the  bed.  In 
a  little  while,  in  the  faint,  still  light,  he  opened  drowsily 
wandering  eyes.  'Poor  old  thing !'  his  voice  murmured — 
'Poor  old  Sheila!' 


43 


Chapter  Five 


IT  was  but  little  after  daybreak  when  Mrs  Lawford, 
after  listening  at  his  door  a  while,  turned  the  key  and 
looked  in  on  her  husband.  Blue-grey  light  from  be- 
tween the  Venetian  blinds  just  dusked  the  room.  She 
stood  in  a  bluish  dressing-gown,  her  hand  on  her  bosom, 
looking  down  on  the  lean  impassive  face.  For  the  briefest 
instant  her  heart  had  leapt  with  an  indescribable  surmise ; 
to  fall  dull  as  lead  once  more.  Breathing  equably  and 
quietly,  the  strange  figure  lay  stretched  upon  the  bed. 
'How  can  he  sleep?  How  can  he  sleep?'  she  whispered 
with  a  black  and  hopeless  indignation.  What  a  night  she 
had  had !  And  he ! 

She  turned  noiselessly  away.  The  candle  had  guttered 
to  extinction.  The  big  glass  reflected  her,  voluminous 
and  wan,  her  dark-ringed  eyes,  full  lips,  rich,  glossy 
hair,  and  rounded  chin.  'Yes,  yes,'  it  seemed  to  murmur 
mournfully.  She  turned  away,  and  drawing  stealthily 
near  stooped  once  more  quite  low,  and  examined  the  face 
on  the  pillow  with  lynx-like  concentration.  And  though 
every  nerve  revolted  at  the  thought,  she  was  finally  con- 
vinced, unwillingly,  but  assuredly,  that  her  husband  was 
here.  Indeed,  if  it  were  not  so,  how  could  she  for  a 
single  moment  have  accepted  the  possibility  that  he  was  a 
stranger  ?  He  seemed  to  haunt,  like  a  ghostly  emanation, 
this  strange,  detestable  face — as  memory  supplies  the 
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The  Return 

features  concealed  beneath  a  mask.  The  face  was  still  and 
stony,  like  one  dead  or  imaged  in  wax,  yet  beneath  it 
dreams  were  passing — silly,  ordinary  Lawford  dreams. 
She  was  almost  alarmed  at  the  terribly  rancorous  hatred 
she  felt  for  the  face.  ...  'It  was  just  like  Arthur  to  be 
so  taken  in !' 

Then  she  too  remembered  Quain,  and  remembered  also 
in  the  slowly  paling  dusk  that  the  house  would  soon  be  stir- 
ring. She  went  out  and  noiselessly  locked  the  door  again. 
But  it  was  useless  to  begin  looking  for  Quain  now — her 
husband  had  a  good  many  dull  books,  most  of  them  his 
'eccentric'  father's.  What  must  the  servants  be  thinking? 
and  what  was  all  that  talk  about  a  mysterious  visitor? 
She  would  have  to  question  Ada — diplomatically.  She 
returned  to  her  room  and  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair,  and 
waited.  In  sheer  weariness  she  fell  into  a  doze,  and  woke 
at  the  sound  of  dustpan  and  broom.  She  rang  the  bell, 
and  asked  for  hot  water,  tea,  and  a  basin  of  cornflour. 

'And  please,  Ada,  be  as  quiet  as  possible  over  your 
work ;  your  master  is  in  a  nice  sleep,  and  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed on  any  account.  In  the  front  bedroom.'  She 
looked  up  suddenly.  'By  the  way,  who  let  Dr  Ferguson 
in  last  night?'  It  was  dangerous,  but  successful. 

'Dr  Ferguson,  ma'am?  Oh,  you  mean  ...  He  was 
in.' 

Sheila  smiled  resignedly.  'Was  in?  What  do  you 
mean,  "was  in"?  And  where  were  you,  then?' 

'I  had  been  sent  out  to  Critchett's,  the  chemist's/ 

'Of  course,  of  course.  So  cook  let  Dr  Ferguson  in, 
then?  Why  didn't  you  say  so  before,  Ada?  And  did 
you  bring  the  medicine  with  you?' 

'It  was  a  packet  in  an  envelope,  ma'am.  But 

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The  Return 

cook  is  sure  she  heard  no  knock — not  while  I  was 
out.  So  Dr  Ferguson  must  have  come  in  quite  unbe- 
known.' 

'Well,  really,'  said  Sheila,  'it  seems  very  difficult  to  get 
at  the  truth  sometimes.  And  when  illness  is  in  the  house 
I  cannot  understand  why  there  should  be  no  one  available 
to  answer  the  door.  You  must  have  left  it  ajar,  unse- 
cured, when  you  went  out.  And  pray,  what  if  Dr  Fer- 
guson had  been  some  common  tramp?  That  would  have 
been  a  nice  thing.' 

'I  am  quite  certain,'  said  Ada  a  little  flatly,  'that  I  did 
shut  the  door.  And  cook  says  she  never  so  much  as 
stirred  from  the  kitchen  till  I  came  down  the  area  steps 
with  the  packet.  And  that's  all  I  know  about  it,  ma'am ; 
except  that  he  was  here  when  I  came  back.  I  did  not 
know  even  there  was  a  Dr  Ferguson;  and  my  mother 
has  lived  here  nineteen  years.' 

'We  must  be  thankful  your  mother  enjoys  such  good 
health,'  replied  Mrs  Lawford  suavely.  'Please  tell  cook 
to  be  very  careful  with  the  cornflour — to  be  sure  it's 
well  mixed  and  thoroughly  done.' 

Mrs  Lawford's  eyes  followed  with  a  certain  discomfort 
those  narrow  print  shoulders  descending  the  stairs.  And 
this  abominable  ruse  was — Arthur's !  She  ran  up  lightly 
and  listened  with  her  ear  to  the  panel  of  his  door.  And 
just  as  she  was  about  to  turn  away  again,  there  came  a 
little  light  knock  at  the  front  door. 

Mrs  Lawford  paused  at  the  loop  of  the  staircase;  and 
not  altogether  with  gratitude  or  relief  she  heard  the  voice 
of  Mr  Bethany,  inquiring  in  cautious  but  quite  audible 
tones  after  her  husband. 

She  dressed  quickly  and  went  down.  The  little  white 
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The  Return 

old  man  looked  very  solitary  in  the  long,  fireless,  drawing- 
room. 

'I  could  not  sleep,'  he  said ;  'I  don't  think  I  grasped  in 
the  least,  I  don't  indeed,  until  I  was  nearly  home,  the 
complexity  of  our  problem.  I  came,  in  fact,  to  a  lamp- 
post. It  was  casting  a  peculiar  shadow.  And  then — you 
know  how  such  thoughts  seize  us,  my  dear — like  a  sud- 
den inspiration,  I  realised  how  tenuous,  how  appallingly 
tenuous  a  hold  we  every  one  of  us  have  on  our  mere 
personality.  But  that,'  he  continued  rapidly,  'that's  only 
for  ourselves — and  after  the  event.  Ours,  just  now,  is 
to  act.  And  first ?' 

'You  really  do,  then — you  really  are  convinced '  be- 
gan Mrs  Lawford. 

But  Mr  Bethany  was  too  quick.  'We  must  be  most 
circumspect.  My  dear  friend,  we  must  be  most  circum- 
spect, for  all  our  sakes.  And  this,  you'll  say,'  he  added, 
smiling,  stretching  out  his  arms,  his  soft  hat  in  one  hand, 
his  umbrella  in  the  other — 'this  is  being  circumspect — a 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  call !  But  you  see,  my  dear, 
I  have  come,  as  I  took  the  precaution  of  explaining  to  the 
maid,  because  it's  now  or  never  to-day.  It  does  so  happen 
that  I  have  to  take  a  wedding  for  an  old  friend's  niece  at 
Witchett ;  so  when  in  need,  you  see,  Providence  enables  us 
to  tell  even  the  conventional  truth.  Now  really,  how  is 
he?  has  he  slept?  has  he  recalled  himself  at  all?  is  there 
any  change? — and,  dear  me,  how  are  you?' 

Mrs  Lawford  sighed.  'A  broken  night  is  really  very 
little  to  a  mother/  she  said.  'He  is  still  asleep.  He 
hasn't,  I  think,  stirred  all  night.' 

'Not  stirred!'  Mr  Bethany  repeated.  'You  baffle  me. 
And  you  have  watched  ?' 

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'Oh  no,'  was  the  cheerful  answer ;  'I  felt  that  quiet,  soli- 
tude, space,  was  everything;  he  preferred  it  so.  He — he 
changed  alone,  I  suppose.  Don't  you  think  it  almost 
stands  to  reason  that  he  will  be  alone  .  .  .  when  he  comes 
back?  Was  I  right?  But  there,  it's  useless,  it's  worse 
than  useless,  to  talk  like  this.  My  husband  is  gone. 
Some  terrible  thing  has  happened.  Whatever  the  mystery 
may  be,  he  will  never  come  back  alive.  My  only  fear  is 
that  I  am  dragging  you  into  a  matter  that  should  from  the 

beginning  have  been  entrusted  to Oh,  it's  monstrous !' 

It  appeared  for  a  moment  as  if  she  were  blinking  to  keep 
back  her  tears,  yet  her  scrutiny  seemed  merely  to  harden. 

Only  the  merest  flicker  of  the  folded  eyelids  over  the 
greenish  eyes  of  her  visitor  answered  the  challenge.  He 
stood  small  and  black,  peeping  fixedly  out  of  the  window 
at  the  sunflecked  laurels. 

'Last  night,'  he  said  slowly,  'when  I  said  good-bye  to 
your  husband,  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  were  the  words  I 
have  used,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  for  nearly  forty- 
five  years — "God  knows  best."  Well,  my  dear  lady,  a 
sense  of  humour,  a  sense  of  reverence,  or  perhaps  even 
a  taint  of  scepticism — call  it  what  you  will — just  inter- 
cepted them.  Oh  no,  not  any  of  these,  my  child;  just 
pity,  overwhelming  pity.  God  does  know  best;  but  in  a 
matter  like  this  it  is  not  even  my  place  to  say  so.  It 
would  be  good  for  none  of  us  to  endanger  our  souls  even 
with  verbal  cant.  Now,  if,  do  you  think,  I  had  just 
five  minutes'  talk — five  minutes;  would  it  disquiet  him?' 

Only  by  an  almost  undignified  haste,  for  the  vicar  was 
remarkably  agile,  Sheila  managed  to  unlock  the  bedroom 
door  without  apparently  his  perceiving  it,  and  with  a 
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The  Return 

warning  finger  she  preceded  him  into  the  great  bedroom. 

'Oh,  yes,  yes,'  he  was  whispering  to  himself ;  'alone — 
well,  well !'  He  hung  his  hat  on  his  umbrella  and  leaned 
it  in  a  corner,  and  then  he  turned. 

'I  don't  think,  you  know,  an  old  friend  does  him  any 

wrong ;  but  last  night  I  had  no  real  oppor '  He  firmly 

adjusted  his  spectacles,  and  looked  long  into  the  dark,  dis- 
passioned  face. 

'H'm!'  he  said,  and  fidgeted,  and  peered  again.  Mrs 
Law  ford  watched  him  keenly. 

'Do  you  still '  she  began. 

But  at  the  same  moment  he  too  broke  silence,  suddenly 
stepping  back  with  the  innocent  remark,  'Has  he — has  he 
asked  for  anything  ?' 

'Only  for  Quain.' 

'"Quain"?' 

'The  medical  Dictionary.' 

'Oh,  yes;  bless  me;  of  course.  ...  A  calm,  complete 
sleep  of  utter  prostration — utter  nervous  prostration. 
And  can  one  wonder?  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow!'  He 
walked  to  the  window  and  peered  between  the  blinds. 
'Sparrows,  sunshine — yes,  and  here's  the  postman,'  he 
said,  as  if  to  himself.  Then  he  turned  sharply  round, 
with  mind  made  up. 

'Now,  do  you  leave  me  here,'  he  said.  'Take  half  an 
hour's  quiet  rest.  He  will  be  glad  of  a  dull  old  fellow 
like  me  when  he  wakes.  And  as  for  my  pretty  bride,  if  I 
miss  the  train,  she  must  wait  till  the  next.  Good  disci- 
pline, my  dear.  Oh,  dear  me!  /  don't  change.  What  a 
precious  experience  now  this  would  have  been  for  a  tot- 
tery, talkative,  owlish  old  parochial  creature  like  me.  But 

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there,  there.  Light  words  make  heavy  hearts,  I  see.  I 
shall  be  quite  comfortable.  No,  no,  I  breakfasted  at  home. 
There's  hat  and  umbrella ;  at  9.3  I  can  fly.' 

Mrs  Law  ford  thanked  him  mutely.  He  smilingly  but 
firmly  bowed  her  out  and  closed  the  door. 

But  eyes  and  brain  had  been  very  busy.  He  had  looked 
at  the  gutted  candle;  at  the  tinted  bland  portrait  on  the 
dressing-table;  at  the  chair  drawn-up;  at  the  boots;  and 
now  again  he  turned  almost  with  a  groan  towards  the 
sleeper.  Then  he  took  out  an  envelope,  on  which  he  had 
jotted  various  memoranda,  and  waited  awhile.  Minutes 
passed  and  at  last  the  sleeper  faintly  stirred,  muttering. 

Mr  Bethany  stooped  quickly.  'What  is  it,  what  is  it?' 
he  whispered. 

Lawford  sighed.  'I  was  only  dreaming,  Sheila,'  he 
said,  and  softly,  peacefully  opened  his  eyes.  'I  dreamed 

I  was  in  the '  His  lids  narrowed,  his  dark  eyes  fixed 

themselves  on  the  anxious  spectacled  face  bending  over 
him.  'Mr  Bethany!  Where?  What's  wrong?' 

His  friend  put  out  his  hand.  'There,  there/  he  said 
soothingly,  'do  not  be  disturbed ;  do  not  disquiet  yourself.' 

Lawford  struggled  up.  Slowly,  painfully  conscious- 
ness returned  to  him.  He  glanced  furtively  round  the 
room,  at  his  clothes,  slinkingly  at  the  vicar ;  licked  his  lips ; 
flushed  with  extraordinary  rapidity;  and  suddenly  burst 
into  tears. 

Mr  Bethany  sat  without  movement,  waiting  till  he 
should  have  spent  himself.  'Now,  Lawford/  he  said 
gently,  compose  yourself,  old  friend.  We  must  face  the 
music — like  men/  He  went  to  the  window,  drew  up  the 
blind,  peeped  out,  and  took  off  his  spectacles. 

'The  first  thing  to  be  done/  he  said,  returning  briskly 
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to  his  chair,  'is  to  send  for  Simon.  Now,  does  Simon 
know  you  well?'  Law  ford  shook  his  head.  'Would  he 
recognise  you?  ...  I  mean  .  .  .' 

'I  have  only  met  him  once — in  the  evening.' 
'Good ;  let  him  come  immediately,  then.  Tell  him  just 
the  facts.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  will  pooh-pooh  the 
whole  thing ;  tell  you  to  keep  quiet,  not  to  worry,  and  so 
on.  My  dear  fellow,  if  we  realised,  say,  typhoid,  who'd 
dare  to  face  it  ?  That  will  give  us  time ;  to  wait  a  while, 
to  recover  our  breath,  to  see  what  happens  next.  And  if 

• — as  I  don't  believe  for  a  moment Why,  in  that  case 

I  heard  the  other  day  of  a  most  excellent  man — Grosser, 
of  Wimpole  Street;  nerves.  He  would  be  absorbed. 
He'll  bottle  you  in  spirit,  Lawford.  We'll  have  him  down 
quietly.  You  see?  But  there  won't  be  any  necessity. 
Oh  no.  By  then  light  will  have  come.  We  shall  remem- 
ber. What  I  mean  is  this.'  He  crossed  his  legs  and 
pushed  out  his  lips.  'We  are  on  quaky  ground;  and  it's 
absolutely  essential  that  you  keep  cool,  and  trust.  I  am 
yours,  heart  and  soul — you  know  that.  I  own  frankly, 
at  first  I  was  shaken.  And  I  have,  I  confess,  been  very 
cunning.  But  first,  faith,  then  evidence  to  bolster  it  up. 
The  faith  was  absolute' — he  placed  one  firm  hand  on 
Law  ford's  knee — 'why,  I  cannot  explain;  but  it  was. 
The  evidence  is  convincing.  But  there  are  others  to  think 
of.  The  shock,  the  incredibleness,  the  consequences;  we 
must  not  scan  too  closely.  Think  -with;  never  against: 
and  bang  go  all  the  arguments.  Your  wife,  poor  dear,  be- 
lieves; but  of  course,  of  course,  she  is  horribly '  he 

broke  off;  'of  course  she  is  shaken,  you  old  simpleton! 
Time  will  heal  all  that.  Time  will  wear  out  the  mask. 
Time  will  tire  out  this  detestable  physical  witchcraft.  The 


The  Return 

mind,  the  self's  the  thing.  Old  fogey  though  I  may  seem 
for  saying  it — that  must  be  kept  unsmirched.  We  won't 
go  wearily  over  the  painful  subject  again.  You  told  me 
last  night,  dear  old  friend,  that  you  were  absolutely  alone 
at  Widderstone.  That  is  enough.  But  here  we  have  visi- 
ble facts,  tangible  effects,  and  there  must  have  been  a 
definite  reason  and  a  cause  for  them.  I  believe  in  the 
devil,  in  the  Powers  of  Darkness,  Lawford,  as  firmly  as  I 
believe  he  and  they  are  powerless — in  the  long  run.  They 
— what  shall  we  say? — have  surrendered  their  intrinsi- 
cality.  You  can  just  go  through  evil,  as  you  can  go 
through  a  sewer,  and  come  out  on  the  other  side  too. 
A  loathsome  process  too.  But  there — we  are  not  speaking 
of  any  such  monstrosities,  and  even  if  we  were,  you  and  I 
with  God's  help  would  just  tire  them  out.  And  that  ally 
gone,  our  poor  dear  old  Mrs  Grundy  will  at  once  capitu- 
late. Eh?  Eh?' 

Through  all  this  long  and  arduous  harangue,  conscious- 
ness, like  the  gradual  light  of  dawn,  had  been  flooding 
that  other  brain.  And  the  face  that  now  confronted  Mr 
Bethany,  though  with  his  feeble  unaided  sight  he  could 
only  very  obscurely  discern  it,  was  vigilant  and  keen,  in 
every  sharp-cut  hungry  feature. 

A  rather  prolonged  silence  followed,  the  visitor  peering 
mutely.  The  black  eyes  nearly  closed,  the  face  turned 
slowly  towards  the  window,  saw  burnt-out  candle,  com- 
prehensive glass. 

'Yes,  yes.'  he  said ;  'I'll  send  for  Simon  at  once.' 

'Good,'  said  Mr  Bethany,,  and  more  doubtfully  repeated 
'good.'  'Now  there's  only  one  thing  left,'  he  went  on 
cheerfully.  'I  have  jotted  down  a  few  test  questions  here; 
they  are  questions  no  one  on  this  earth  could  answer  but 
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you,  Lawford.  They  are  merely  for  external  proofs. 
You  won't,  you  can't,  mistake  my  motive.  We  cannot 
foretell  or  foresee  what  need  may  arise  for  just  such  jog- 
trot primitive  evidence.  I  propose  that  you  now  answer 
them  here,  in  writing.' 

Lawford  stood  up  and  walked  to  the  looking-glass,  and 
paused.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head.  'Yes,'  he  said,  'of 
course;  it's  a  rattling  good  move.  I'm  not  quite  awake; 
myself,  I  mean.  I'll  do  it  now.'  He  took  out  a  pencil 
case  and  tore  another  leaf  from  his  pocket-book.  'What 
are  they?' 

Mr  Bethany  rang  the  bell.  Sheila  herself  answered  it. 
She  stood  on  the  threshold  and  looked  across  through  a 
shaft  of  autumnal  sunshine  at  her  husband,  and  her  hus- 
band with  a  quiet  strange  smile  looked  across  through  the 
sunshine  at  his  wife.  Mr  Bethany  waited  in  vain. 

4I  am  just  going  to  put  the  arch-impostor  through  his 
credentials,'  he  said  tartly.  'Now  then,  Lawford!'  He 
read  out  the  questions,  one  by  one,  from  his  crafty  little 
list,  pursing  his  lips  between  each;  and  one  by  one,  Law- 
ford,  seated  at  the  dressing-table,  fluently  scribbled  his  an- 
swers. Then  question  and  answer  were  rigorously 
compared  by  Mr  Bethany,  with  small  white  head  bent 
close  and  spectacles  poised  upon  the  powerful  nose,  and 
signed  and  dated,  and  passed  to  Mrs  Lawford  without  a 
word. 

Mrs  Lawford  read  question  and  answer  where  she 
stood,  in  complete  silence.  She  looked  up.  'Many  of 
these  questions  I  don't  know  the  answers  to  myself,'  she 
said. 

'It  is  immaterial,'  said  Mr  Bethany. 

'One  answer  is — is  inaccurate.' 

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'Yes,  yes,  quite  so:  due  to  a  mistake  in  a  letter  from 
myself.' 

Mrs  Law  ford  read  quietly  on,  folded  the  papers,  and 
held  them  out  between  finger  and  thumb.  'The — hand- 
writing .  .  /  she  remarked  very  softly. 

'Wonderful,  isn't  it?'  said  Mr  Bethany  warmly;  'all 
the  general  look  and  run  of  the  thing  different,  but  every 
real  essential  feature  unchanged.  Now  into  the  envelope. 
And  now  a  little  wax?' 

Mrs  Lawford  stood  waiting.  'There's  a  green  piece 
of  sealing-wax,'  almost  drawled  the  quiet  voice,  'in  the 
top  right  drawer  of  the  nest  in  the  study,  which  old  James 
Igave  me  the  Christmas  before  last.'  He  glanced  with 
lowered  eyelids  at  his  wife's  flushed  cheek.  Their  eyes 
met. 

'Thank  you/  she  said. 

When  she  returned  the  vicar  was  sitting  in  a  chair, 
leaning  his  chin  on  the  knobbed  handle  of  his  umbrella. 
He  rose  and  lit  a  taper  for  her  with  a  match  from  a  little 
green  pot  on  the  table.  And  Mrs  Lawford,  with  trem- 
bling fingers,  sealed  the  letter,  as  he  directed,  with  his  own 
seal. 

'There!'  he  said  triumphantly,  'how  many  more  such 
brilliant  lawyers,  I  wonder,  lie  dormant  in  the  Church? 
And  who  shall  keep  this  ?  .  .  .  Why,  all  three,  of  course.' 
He  went  on  without  pausing.  'Some  little  drawer  now, 
secret  and  undetectable,  with  a  lock.'  Just  such  a  little 
drawer  that  locked  itself  with  a  spring  lay  by  chance  in 
the  looking-glass.  There  the  letter  was  hidden.  And 
Mr  Bethany  looked  at  his  watch.  'Nineteen  minutes/ 
he  said.  'The  next  thing,  my  dear  child — we're  getting 
on  swimmingly — and  it's  astonishing  how  things  are 
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simplified  by  mere  use — the  next  thing  is  to  send  for 
Simon.' 

Sheila  took  a  deep  breath,  but  did  not  look  up.  'I  am 
entirely  in  your  hands,'  she  replied. 

'So  be  it,'  said  he  crisply.  'Get  to  bed,  Lawford;  it's 
better  so.  And  I'll  look  in  on  my  way  back  from  Wit- 
chett.  I  came,  my  dear  fellow,  in  gloomy  disturbance  of 
mind.  It  was  getting  up  too  early;  it  fogs  old  brains. 
Good-bye,  good-bye.' 

He  squeezed  Law  ford's  hand.  Then,  with  umbrella  un- 
der his  arm,  his  hat  on  his  head,  his  spectacles  readjusted, 
he  hurried  out  of  the  room.  Mrs  Lawford  followed  him. 
For  a  few  minutes  Lawford  sat  motionless,  with  head 
bent  a  little,  and  eyes  restlessly  scanning  the  door.  Then 
he  rose  abruptly,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  in  bed, 
alone  with  his  slow  thoughts:  while  a  basin  of  cornflour 
stood  untasted  on  a  little  table  at  his  bedside,  and  a  cheer- 
ful fire  burned  in  the  best  visitors'  room's  tiny  grate. 

At  half-past  eleven  Dr  Simon  entered  this  soundless 
seclusion.  He  sat  down  beside  Lawford,  and  took 
temperature  and  pulse.  Then  he  half  closed  his  lids,  and 
scanned  his  patient  out  of  an  unusually  dark,  un-English 
face,  with  straight  black  hair,  and  listened  attentively  to 
his  rather  incoherent  story.  It  was  a  story  very  much 
modified  and  rounded  off.  Nor  did  Lawford  draw  Dr 
Simon's  attention  to  the  portrait  now  smiling  convention- 
ally above  their  heads  from  the  wall  over  the  fireplace. 

'It  was  rather  bleak — the  wind;  and,  I  think,  perhaps, 
I  had  had  a  touch  of  influenza.  It  was  a  silly  thing  to  do. 
But  still,  Dr  Simon,  one  doesn't  expect — well,  there,  I 
don't  feel  the  same  man — physically.  I  really  cannot  ex- 
plain how  great  a  change  has  taken  place.  And  yet  I  feel 

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perfectly  fit  in  myself.  And  if  it  were  not  for — for  being 
laughed  at,  go  back  to  town,  to-day.  Why  my  wife 
scarcely  recognised  me/ 

Dr  Simon  continued  his  scrutiny.  Try  as  he  would, 
Law  ford  could  not  raise  his  downcast  eyes  to  meet  direct 
the  doctor's  polite  attention. 

'And  what/  said  Dr  Simon,  'what  precisely  is  the  nature 
of  the  change?  Have  you  any  pain?' 

'No,  not  the  least  pain/  said  Lawf  ord ;  'I  think,  perhaps, 
or  rather  my  face  is  a  little  shrunken — and  yet — length- 
ened; at  least  it  feels  so;  and  a  faint  twinge  of  rheuma- 
tism. But  my  hair — well,  I  don't  know;  it's  difficult  to 
say  one's  self/  He  could  get  on  so  very  much  better,  he 
thought,  if  only  his  mind  would  be  at  peace  and  these  pre- 
posterous promptings  and  voices  were  still. 

Dr  Simon  faced  the  window,  and  drew  his  hand  softly 
over  his  head.  'We  never  can  be  too  cautious  at  a  certain 
age,  and  especially  after  influenza/  he  said.  'It  under- 
mines the  whole  system,  and  in  particular  the  nervous 
system ;  leaving  the  mind  the  prey  of  the  most  melancholy 
— fancies.  I  should  astound  you,  Mr  Lawford,  with  the 
devil  influenza  plays.  ...  A  slight  nervous  shock  and  a 
chill ;  quite  slight,  I  hope.  A  few  days'  rest  and  plenty  of 
nourishment.  There's  nothing;  temperature  inconsider- 
able. All  perfectly  intelligible.  Most  certainly  reassure 
yourself !  And  as  for  the  change  you  speak  of — he 
looked  steadily  at  the  dark  face  on  the  pillow  and  smiled 
amiably — 'I  don't  think  we  need  worry  much  about  that. 
It  certainly  was  a  bleak  wind  yesterday — and  a  ceme- 
tery, my  dear  sir!  It  was  indiscreet — yes,  very/  He 
held  out  his  hand.  'You  must  not  be  alarmed/  he  said, 
very  distinctly  with  the  merest  trace  of  an  accent;  'air, 
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sunshine,  quiet,  nourishment,,  sleep — that  is  all.  The 
little  window  might  be  a  few  inches  open,  and — and  any 
light  reading.' 

He  opened  the  door  and  joined  Mrs  Law  ford  on  the 
staircase.  He  talked  to  her  quietly  over  his  shoulder 
all  the  way  downstairs.  'It  was,  it  was  sporting  with 
Providence — a  wind,  believe  me,  nearly  due  east,  in  spite 
of  the  warm  sunshine.' 

'But  the  change — the  change !'  Mrs  Lawf ord  managed 
to  murmur  tragically,  as  he  strode  to  the  door.  Dr 
Simon  smiled,  and  gracefully  tapped  his  forehead  with 
a  red-gloved  forefinger. 

'Humour  him,  humour  him,'  he  repeated  indulgently. 
'Rest  and  quiet  will  soon  put  that  little — trouble  out  of 
his  head.  Oh  yes,  I  did  notice  it — the  set  drawn  look, 
and  the  droop :  quite  so.  Good  morning.' 

Mrs  Law  ford  gently  closed  the  door  after  him.  A 
glimpse  of  Ada,  crossing  from  room  to  room,  suggested 
a  precaution.  She  called  out  in  her  clearest  notes.  'If 
Dr  Ferguson  should  call  while  I  am  out,  Ada,  will  you 
please  tell  him  that  Dr  Simon  regretted  that  he  was  un- 
able to  wait?  Thank  you.'  She  paused  with  hand  on 
the  balusters,  then  slowly  ascended  the  stairs.  Her  hus- 
band's face  was  turned  to  the  ceiling,  his  hands  clasped 
above  his  head.  She  took  up  her  stand  by  the  fireplace, 
resting  one  silk-slippered  foot  on  the  fender.  'Dr  Simon 
is  reassuring/  she  said,  'but  I  do  hope,  Arthur,  you  will 
follow  his  advice.  He  looks  a  fairly  clever  man. 
.  .  .  But  with  a  big  practice.  .  .  .  Do  you  think,  dear, 
he  quite  realised  the  extent  of  the — the  change?' 

'I  told  him  what  happened,'  said  her  husband's  voice 
out  of  the  bed-clothes. 

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'Yes,  yes,  I  know,'  said  Sheila  soothingly ;  'but  we  must 
remember  he  is  comparatively  a  stranger.  He  would  not 
detect ' 

'What  did  he  tell  you?'  asked  the  voice. 

Mrs  Law  ford  deliberately  considered.  If  only  he 
would  always  thus  keep  his  face  concealed,  how  much 
easier  it  would  be  to  discuss  matters  rationally.  'You  see, 
dear/  she  said  softly,  'I  know,  of  course,  nothing  about 
the  nerves ;  but  personally,  I  think  his  suggestion  absurd. 
No  mere  fancy,  surely,  can  make  a  lasting  alteration  in 
one's  face.  And  your  hair — I  don't  want  to  say  anything 
that  may  seem  unkind — but  isn't  it  really  quite  a  distinct 
shade  darker,  Arthur?' 

'Any  great  strain  will  change  the  colour  of  a  man's  hair,' 
said  Lawford  stolidly;  'at  any  rate,  to  white.  Why,  I 
read  once  of  a  fellow  in.  India,  a  Hindoo,  or  something, 
who ' 

'But  have  you  had  any  intense  strain,  or  anxiety?' 
broke  in  Sheila.  'You  might,  at  least,  have  confided  in 

me ;  that  is,  unless But  there,  don't  you  think  really, 

Arthur,  it  would  be  much  more  satisfactory  in  every  way 
if  we  had  further  advice  at  once?  Alice  will  be  home 
next  week.  To-morrow  is  the  Harvest  Festival,  and 
next  week,  of  course,  the  Dedication;  and,  in  any  case, 
the  Bazaar  is  out  of  the  question.  They  will  have  to 
find  another  stall-holder.  We  must  do  our  ut- 
most to  avoid  comment  or  scandal.  Every  minute  must 
help  to — to  fix  a  thing  like  that.  I  own  even  now  I  can- 
not realise  what  this  awful  calamity  means.  It's  useless 
to  brood  on  it.  We  must,  as  the  poor  dear  old  vicar  said 
only  last  night,  keep  our  heads  clear.  But  I  am  sure  Dr 
Simon  was  under  a  misapprehension.  If,  now,  it  was  ex- 
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plained  to  him,  a  little  more  fully,  Arthur — a  photograph. 
Oh,  anything  on  earth  but  this  dreadful  wearing  uncer- 
tainty and  suspense!  Besides  ...  is  Simon  quite  an 
English  name?' 

Law  ford  drew  further  into  his  pillow.  'Do  as  you 
think  best,  Sheila/  he  said.  Tor  my  own  part,  I  believe 
it  may  be  as  he  suggests — partly  an  illusion,  a  touch  of 
nervous  breakdown.  It  simply  can't  be  as  bad  as  I  think 
it  is.  If  it  were,  you  would  not  be  here  talking  like  this ; 
and  Bethany  wouldn't  have  believed  a  word  I  said.  What- 
ever it  is,  it's  no  good  crying  it  on  the  housetops.  Give 
me  time,  just  time.  Besides,  how  do  we  know  what  he 
really  thought?  Doctors  don't  tell  their  patients  every- 
thing. Give  the  poor  chap  a  chance,  and  more  so  if  he 
is  a  foreigner.  He's' — his  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper 
< — 'he's  no  darker  than  this.  And  do,  please,  Sheila,  take 
this  infernal  stuff  away,  and  let  me  have  something  solid. 
I'm  not  ill — in  that  way.  All  I  want  is  peace  and  quiet, 
time  to  think.  Let  me  fight  it  out  alone.  It's  been  sprung 
on  me.  The  worst's  not  over.  But  I'll  win  through; 
wait!  And  if  not — well,  you  shall  not  suffer,  Sheila. 
Don't  be  afraid.  There  are  other  ways  out.' 

Sheila  broke  down.  'Any  one  would  think  to  hear  you 
talk,  that  I  was  perfectly  heartless.  I  told  Ada  to  be 
most  careful  about  the  cornflour.  And  as  for  other  ways 
out,  it's  a  positively  wicked  thing  to  say  to  me  when  I'm 
nearly  distracted  with  trouble  and  anxiety.  What  motive 
could  you  have  had  for  loitering  in  an  old  cemetery? 
And  in  an  east  wind !  It's  useless  for  me  to  remain  here, 
Arthur,  to  be  accused  of  every  horrible  thing  that  comes 
into  a  morbid  imagination.  I  will  leave  you,  as  you 
suggest,  in  peace.' 

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'One  moment,  Sheila,'  answered  the  muffled  voice. 
'I  have  accused  you  of  nothing.  If  you  knew  all;  if  you 
could  read  my  thoughts,  you  would  be  surprised,  per- 
haps, at  my But  never  mind  that.  On  the  other 

hand,  I  really  do  think  it  would  be  better  for  the  present 
to  discuss  the  thing  no  more.  To-day  is  Friday.  Give 
this  miserable  face  a  week.  Talk  it  over  with  Bethany 
if  you  like.  But  I  forbid' — he  struggled  up  in  bed,  sallow 
and  sinister — 'I  flatly  forbid,  please  understand,  any  other 
interference  till  then.  Afterwards  you  must  do  exactly 
as  you  please.  Send  round  the  Town  Crier!  But  till 
then,  silence!' 

Sheila  with  raised  head  confronted  him.  'This,  then, 
is  your  gratitude.  So  be  it.  Silence,  no  doubt!  Until 
it's  too  late  to  take  action.  Until  you  have  wormed  your 
way  in,  and  think  you  are  safe.  To  have  believed! 
Where  is  my  husband  ?  that  is  what  I  am  asking  you  now. 
When  and  how  you  have  learned  his  secrets  God  only 
knows,  and  your  conscience!  But  he  always  was  a 
simpleton  at  heart.  I  warn  you,  then.  Until  next  Thurs- 
day I  consent  to  say  nothing  provided  you  remain  quiet; 
make  no  disturbance,  no  scandal  here.  The  servants  and 
all  who  inquire  shall  simply  be  told  that  my  husband  is 
confined  to  his  room  with — with  a  nervous  breakdown,  as 
you  have  yourself  so  glibly  suggested.  I  am  at  your 
mercy,  I  own  it.  The  vicar  believes  your  preposterous 
story — with  his  spectacles  off.  You  would  convince  any- 
body with  the  wicked  cunning  with  which  you  have  ca- 
joled and  wheedled  him,  with  which  you  have  deceived 
and  fooled  a  foreign  doctor.  But  you  will  not  convince 
me.  You  will  not  convince  Alice.  I  have  friends  in  the 
world,  though  you  may  not  be  aware  of  it,  who  will  not 
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be  quite  so  apt  to  believe  any  cock-and-bull  story  you  may 
see  fit  to  invent.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say.  To-night  I 
tell  the  vicar  all  that  I  have  just  told  you.  And  from 
this  moment,  please,  we  are  strangers.  I  shall  come  into 
the  room  no  more  than  necessity  dictates.  On  Friday  we 
resume  our  real  parts.  My  husband — Arthur — to — to 
connive  at  ...  Phh!' 

Rage  had  transfigured  her.  She  scarcely  heard  her 
own  words.  They  poured  out  senselessly,  monotonously, 
one  calling  up  another,  as  if  from  the  lips  of  a  Cassandra. 
Law  ford  sank  back  into  bed,  clutching  the  sheets  with 
both  lean  hands.  He  took  a  deep  breath  and  shut  his 
mouth, 

'It  reminds  me,  Sheila/  he  began  arduously,  'of  our 
first  quarrel  before  we  were  married,  the  evening  after 
your  aunt  Rose  died  at  Llandudno — do  you  remember? 
You  threw  open  the  window,  and  I  think — I  saved  your 
life.'  A  pause  followed.  Then  a  queer,  almost  inarticu- 
late voice  added,  'At  least,  I  am  afraid  so.' 

A  cold  and  awful  quietness  fell  on  Sheila's  heart.  She 
stared  fixedly  at  the  tuft  of  dark  hair,  the  only  visible 
sign  of  her  husband,  on  the  pillow.  Then,  taking  up  tKe 
basin  of  cold  cornflour,  she  left  the  room.  In  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  she  reappeared  carrying  a  tray,  with  ham  and  eggs 
and  coffee  and  honey  invitingly  displayed.  She  laid  it 
down. 

'There  is  only  one  other  question,'  she  said,  with  per- 
fect composure — 'that  of  money.  Your  signature  as  it 
appears  on  the — the  document  drawn  up  this  morning, 
would,  of  course,  be  quite  useless  on  a  cheque.  I  have 
taken  all  the  money  I  could  find;  it  is  in  safety.  You 
may,  however,  conceivably  be  in  need  of  some  yourself; 

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here  is  five  pounds.  I  have  my  own  cheque-book,  and 
shall  therefore  have  no  need  to  consider  the  question  again 
for — for  the  present.  So  far  as  you  are  concerned,  I 
shall  be  guided  solely  by  Mr  Bethany.  He  will,  I  do  not 
doubt,  take  full  responsibility.' 

'And  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul !'  uttered  a 
stifled,  unfamiliar  voice  from  the  bed.  Mrs  Lawford 
stooped.  'Arthur!'  she  cried  faintly,  'Arthur!' 

Lawford  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  with  a  sigh  that 
was  very  near  to  being  a  sob.  'Oh,  Sheila,  if  you'd  only 
be  your  real  self!  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  pretence? 
Just  consider  my  position  a  little.  The  fear  and  horror 
are  not  all  on  your  side.  You  called  me  Arthur  even 
then.  I'd  willingly  do  anything  you  wish  to  save  you 
pain ;  you  know  that.  Can't  we  be  friends  even  in  this — 
this  ghastly Won't  you,  Sheila?' 

Mrs  Lawford  drew  back,  struggling  with  a  doubtful 
heart. 

'I  think,'  she  said,  'it  would  be  better  not  to  discuss  that 
now.' 

The  rest  of  the  morning  Lawford  remained  in  solitude. 


Chapter  Six 


THERE  were  three  books  in  the  room — Jeremy 
Taylor's  'Holy  Living  and  Dying/  a  volume  of 
the  Quiver,  and  a  little  gilded  book  on  wild- 
flowers.  He  read  in  vain.  He  lay  and  listened  to  the 
uproar  of  his  thoughts  on  which  an  occasional  sound — 
the  droning  of  a  fly,  the  cry  of  a  milkman,  the  noise  of 
a  passing  van — obtruded  from  the  workaday  world.  The 
pale  gold  sunlight  edged  softly  over  the  bed.  He  ate  up 
everything  on  his  tray.  He  even,  on  the  shoals  of  night- 
mare, dreamed  awhile.  But  by  and  by  as  the  hours 
wheeled  slowly  on  he  grew  less  calm,  less  strenuously  re- 
solved on  lying  there  inactive.  Every  sparrow  that 
twittered  cried  reveille  through  his  brain.  He  longed  with 
an  ardour  strange  to  his  temperament  to  be  up  and  doing. 
What  if  his  misfortune  was,  as  he  had  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment  suggested  to  Sheila,  only  a  morbid 
delusion  of  mind ;  shared  too  in  part  by  sheer  force  of  his 
absurd  confession?  Even  if  he  was  going  mad,  who 
knows  how  peaceful  a  release  that  might  not  be?  Could 
his  shrewd  old  vicar  have  implicitly  believed  in  him  if  the 
change  were  as  complete  as  he  supposed  it  ?  He  flung  off 
the  bedclothes  and  locked  the  door.  He  dressed  himself, 
noticing,  he  fancied,  with  a  deadly  revulsion  of  feeling, 
that  his  coat  was  a  little  too  short  in  the  sleeves,  his  waist- 
coat too  loose.  In  the  midst  of  his  dressing  came  Sheila 
bringing  his  luncheon.  Tm  sorry/  he  called  out,  stoop- 

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The  Return 

ing  quickly  beside  the  bed,  'I  can't  talk  now.  Please 
put  the  tray  down.' 

About  half  an  hour  afterwards  he  heard  the  outer  door 
close,  and  peeping  from  behind  the  curtains  saw  his  wife 
go  out.  All  was  drowsily  quiet  in  the  house.  He  de- 
voured his  lunch  like  a  schoolboy.  That  finished  to  the 
last  crumb,  without  a  moment's  delay  he  covered  his  face 
with  a  towel,  locked  the  door  behind  him,  put  the  key  in 
his  pocket,  and  ran  lightly  downstairs.  He  stuffed  the 
towel  into  an  ulster  pocket,  put  on  a  soft,  wide-brimmed 
hat,  and  noiselessly  let  himself  out.  Then  he  turned  with 
an  almost  hysterical  delight  and  ran — ran  like  the  wind, 
without  pausing,  without  thinking,  straight  on,  up  one 
turning1,  down  another,  until  he  reached  a  broad  open 
common,  thickly  wooded,  sprinkled  with  gorse  and  hazel 
and  may,  and  faintly  purple  with  fading  heather.  There 
he  flung  himself  down  in  the  beautiful  sunlight,  among 
the  yellowing  bracken,  to  recover  his  breath. 

He  lay  there  for  many  minutes,  thinking  almost  with 
composure.  Flight,  it  seemed,  had  for  the  moment 
quietened  the  demands  of  that  other  feebly  struggling 
personality  which  was  beginning  to  insinuate  itself  into 
his  consciousness,  which  had  so  miraculously  broken  in 
and  taken  possession  of  his  body.  He  would  not  think 
now.  All  he  needed  was  a  little  quiet  and  patience  before 
he  threw  off  for  good  and  all  his  right  to  be  free,  to  be 
his  own  master,  to  call  himself  sane. 

He  scrambled  up  and  turned  his  face  towards  the 
westering  sun.  What  was  there  in  the  stillness  of  its 
beautiful  splendour  that  seemed  to  sharpen  his  horror  and 
difficulty,  and  yet  to  stir  him  to  such  a  daring  and  devilry 
as  he  had  never  known  since  he  was  a  boy?  There  was 
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little  sound  of  life;  somewhere  an  unknown  bird  was 
singing,  and  a  few  late  bees  were  droning  in  the  bracken. 
All  these  years  he  had,  like  an  old  blind  horse,  stolidly 
plodded  round  and  round  in  a  dull  self-set  routine.  And 
now,  just  when  the  spirit  had  come  for  rebellion,  the 
mood  for  a  harmless  truancy,  there  had  fallen  with  them 
too  this  hideous  enigma.  He  sat  there  with  the  dusky 
silhouette  of  the  face  that  was  now  drenched  with  sun- 
light in  his  mind's  eye.  He  set  off  again  up  the  stony 
incline. 

Why  not  walk  on  and  on?  In  time  real  wholesome 
weariness  would  come;  he  could  sleep  at  ease  in  some 
pleasant  wayside  inn,  without  once  meeting  the  eyes  that 
stood  as  it  were  like  a  window  between  himself  and  a 
shrewd  incredulous  scoffing  world  that  would  turn  him 
into  a  monstrosity  and  his  story  into  a  fable.  And  in  a 
little  while,  perhaps  in  three  days,  he  would  awaken  out 
of  this  engrossing  nightmare,  and  know  he  was  free,  this 
black  dog  gone  from  his  back,  and  (as  the  old  saying 
expressed  it  without  any  one  dreaming  what  it  really 
meant)  his  own  man  again.  How  astonished  Sheila 
would  be;  how  warmly  she  would  welcome  him!  .  .  . 
Oh  yes,  of  course  she  would. 

He  came  again  to  a  standstill.  No  voice  answered  him 
out  of  that  illimitable  gold  and  blue.  Nothing  seemed 
aware  of  him.  But  as  he  stood  there,  doubtful  as  Cain  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  unknown,  he  caught  the  sound  of  a 
footfall  on  the  lonely  and  stone-strewn  path. 

The  ground  sloped  steeply  away  to  the  left,  and  slowly 
mounting  the  hillside  came  mildly  on  an  old  lady  he  knew, 
a  Miss  Sinnet,  an  old  friend  of  his  mother's.  There  was 
just  such  a  little  seat  as  that  other  he  knew  so  well,  on 

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the  brow  of  the  hill.  He  made  his  way  to  it,  intending 
to  sit  quietly  there  until  the  little  old  lady  had  passed  by. 
Up  and  up  she  came.  Her  large  bonnet  appeared,  and 
then  her  mild  white  face,  inclined  a  little  towards  him  as 
she  ascended.  Evidently  this  very  seat  was  her  goal ;  and 
evasion  was  impossible.  Evasion!  .  .  .  Memory  rushed 
back  and  set  his  pulses  beating.  He  turned  boldly  to  the 
sun,  and  the  old  lady,  with  a  brief  glance  into  his  face, 
composed  herself  at  the  other  end  of  the  little  seat.  She 
gazed  out  of  a  gentle  reverie  into  the  golden  valley.  And 
so  they  sat  a  while.  And  almost  as  if  she  had  felt  the 
bond  of  acquaintance  between  them,  she  presently  sighed, 
and  addressed  him:  'A  very,  very,  beautiful  view,  sir.' 

Lawford  paused,  then  turned  a  gloomy,  earnest  face, 
gilded  with  sunshine.  'Beautiful,  indeed/  he  said,  'but 
not  for  me.  No,  Miss  Sinnet,  not  for  me.' 

The  old  lady  gravely  turned  and  examined  the  aquiline 
profile.  'Well,  I  confess/  she  remarked  urbanely,  'you 
have  the  advantage  of  me/ 

Lawford  smiled  uneasily.  'Believe  me,  it  is  little  ad- 
vantage/ 

'My  sight/  said  Miss  Sinnet  precisely,  'is  not  so  good 
as  I  might  wish ;  though  better  perhaps  than  I  might  have 
hoped ;  I  fear  I  am  not  much  wiser ;  your  face  is  still  un- 
familiar to  me/ 

'It  is  not  unfamiliar  to  me/  said  Lawford.  Whose 
trickery  was  this?  he  thought,  putting  such  affected  stuff 
into  his  mouth. 

A  faint  lightening  of  pity  came  into  the  silvery  and 
scrupulous  countenance.  'Ah,  dear  me,  yes/  she  said 
courteously. 

Lawford  rested  a  lean  hand  on  the  seat.  'And  have 
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you,'  he  asked,  'not  the  least  recollection  in  the  world  of 
my  face?' 

'Now  really,'  she  said,  smiling  blandly,  'is  that  quite 
fair  ?  Think  of  all  the  scores  and  scores  of  faces  in  sev- 
enty long  years;  and  how  very  treacherous  memory  is. 
You  shall  do  me  the  service  of  reminding  me  of  one  whose 
name  has  for  the  moment  escaped  me.' 

'I  am  the  son  of  a  very"  old  friend  of  yours,  Miss  Sinnet,' 
said  Lawford  quietly — 'a  friend  that  was  once  your 
schoolfellow  at  Brighton.' 

'Well,  now,'  said  the  old  lady,  grasping  her  umbrella, 
'that  is  undoubtedly  a  clue ;  but  then,  you  see,  all  but  one 
of  the  friends  of  my  girlhood  are  dead;  and  if  I  have 
never  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  her  son,  unless  there  is 
a  decided  resemblance,  how  am  I  to  recollect  her  by  look- 
ing at  him?' 

'There  is,  I  believe,  a  likeness,'  said  Lawford. 

She  nodded  her  great  bonnet  at  him  with  gentle  amuse- 
ment. 'You  are  insistent  in  your  fancy.  Well,  let  me 
think  again.  The  last  to  leave  me  was  Fanny  Urquhart, 
that  was — let  me  see — last  October.  Now  you  are  cer- 
tainly not  Fanny  Urquhart's  son,'  she  stooped  austerely, 
'for  she  never  had  one.  Last  year,  too,  I  heard  that  my 
dear,  dear  Mrs  Jameson  was  dead.  Her  I  hadn't  met  for 
many,  many  years.  But,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so, 
yours  is  not  a  Scottish  face;  and  she  not  only  married  a 
Scottish  husband,  but  was  herself  a  Dunbar.  No,  I  am 
still  at  a  loss.' 

A  miserable  strife  was  in  her  chance  companion's  mind, 
a  strife  of  anger  and  recrimination.  He  turned  his  eyes 
wearily  to  the  fast  declining  sun.  'You  will  forgive  my 
persistency,  but  I  assure  you  it  is  a  matter  of  life  or 

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death  to  me.  Is  there  no  one  my  face  recalls?  My 
voice  ?' 

Miss  Sinnet  drew  her  long  lips  together,  her  eyebrows 
lifted  with  the  faintest  perturbation.  'But  he  certainly 
knows  my  name,'  she  said  to  herself.  She  turned  once 
more,  and  in  the  still  autumnal  beauty,  beneath  that  pale 
blue  arch  of  evening,  these  two  human  beings  confronted 
one  another  again.  She  eyed  him  blandly,  yet  with  a  cer- 
tain grave  directness. 

'I  don't  really  think/  she  said,  you  can  be  Mary  Law- 
ford's  son.  I  could  scarcely  have  mistaken  him' 

Lawford  gulped  and  turned  away.  He  hardly  knew 
what  this  surge  of  feeling  meant.  Was  it  hope,  despair, 
resentment;  had  he  caught  even  the  echo  of  an  unholy 
joy?  His  mind  for  a  moment  became  confused  as  if  in 
the  tumult  of  a  struggle.  He  heard  himself  expostulate, 
'Ah,  Miss  Bennett,  I  fear  I  set  you  too  difficult  a  task.' 

The  old  lady  drew  abruptly  in,  like  a  trustful  and  gentle 
snail  into  its  shocked  house.  'Bennett,  sir;  but  my  name 
is  not  Bennett.' 

And  again  Lawford  accepted  the  miserable  prompting. 
'Not  Bennet !  .  .  .  How  can  I  ever  then  apologise  for  so 
frantic  a  mistake  ?' 

The  little  old  lady  took  firm  hold  of  her  umbrella.  She 
did  not  answer  him.  'The  likeness,  the  likeness  !'  he  began 
unctuously,  and  stopped,  for  the  glance  that  dwelt  fleet- 
ingly  on  him  was  cold  with  the  formidable  dignity  and 
displeasure  of  age.  He  raised  his  hat  and  turned  miser- 
ably home.  He  strode  on  out  of  the  last  gold  into  the 
blue  twilight.  What  fantastic  foolery  of  mind  was  mas- 
tering him?  He  cast  a  hurried  look  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  kindly  and  offended  old  figure  sitting  there,  solitary, 
68 


The  Return 

on  the  little  seat,  in  her  great  bonnet,  with  back  turned 
resolutely  upon  him — the  friend  of  his  dead  mother  who 
might  have  proved  in  his  need  a  friend  indeed  to  him. 
And  he  had  by  this  insane  caprice  hopelessly  estranged 
her. 

She  would  remember  this  face  well  enough  now,  he 
thought  bitterly,  and  would  take  her  place  among  his  quiet 
enemies,  if  ever  the  day  of  reckoning  should  come.  It 
was  scandalous,  it  was  banal  to  have  abused  her  trust 
and  courtesy.  Oh,  it  was  hopeless  to  struggle  any  more! 
The  fates  were  against  him.  They  had  played  him  a  trick. 
He  was  to  be  their  transitory  sport,  as  many  a  better  man 
he  could  himself  recollect  had  been  before  him.  He 
would  go  home  and  give  in;  let  Sheila  do  with  him  what 
she  pleased.  No  one  but  a  lunatic  could  have  acted  as  he 
had,  with  just  that  frantic  hint  of  method  so  remarkable 
in  the  insane. 

He  left  the  common.  A  lamplighter  was  lighting  the 
lamps.  A  thin  evening  haze  was  on  the  air.  If  only  he 
had  stayed  at  home  that  fateful  afternoon!  Who,  what 
had  induced  him,  enticed  him  to  venture  out  ?  And  even 
with  the  thought  welled  up  into  his  mind  an  intense  desire 
to  go  to  the  old  green  time-worn  churchyard  again ;  to  sit 
there  contentedly  alone,  where  none  heeded  the  completest 
metamorphosis,  down  beside  the  yew-trees.  What  a  fool 
he  had  been.  There  alone,  of  course,  lay  his  only  possible 
chance  of  recovery.  He  would  go  to-morrow.  Perhaps 
Sheila  had  not  yet  discovered  his  absence ;  and  there  would 
be  no  difficulty  in  repeating  so  successful  a  stratagem. 

Remembrance  of  his  miserable  mistake,  of  Miss  Sinnet, 
faintly  returned  to  him  as  he  swiftly  mounted  the  steps 
to  his  porch.  Poor  old  lady.  He  would  make  amends  for 

69 


The  Return 

his  discourtesy  when  he  was  quite  himself  again.  She 
should  some  day  hear,  perhaps,  his  infinitely  tragic,  in- 
finitely comic  experience  from  his  own  lips.  He  would 
take  her  some  flowers,  some  old  keepsake  of  his  mother's. 
What  would  he  not  do  when  the  old  moods  and  brains  of 
the  stupid  Arthur  Law  ford,  whom  he  had  appreciated  so 
little  and  so  superficially,  came  back  to  him. 

He  ran  up  the  steps  and  stopped  dead,  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  chilled  and  aghast.  Sheila  had  taken  his  keys. 
He  stood  there,  dazed  and  still,  beneath  the  dim  yellow  of 
his  own  fanlight;  and  once  again  that  inward  spring  flew 
back.  'Brazen  it  out;  brazen  it  out!  Knock  and  ring!' 

He  knocked  flamboyantly,  and  rang. 

There  came  a  quiet  step  and  the  door  opened.  'Dr 
Simon,  of  course,  has  called  ?'  he  inquired  suavely. 

'Yes,  sir.' 

'Ah,  and  gone? — as  I  feared.    And  Mrs  Lawford?' 

'I  think  Mrs  Lawford  is  in,  sir.' 

Lawford  put  out  a  detaining  hand.  'We  will  not  dis- 
turb her;  we  will  not  disturb  her.  I  can  find  my  way 
up ;  oh  yes,  thank  you !' 

But  Ada  still  palely  barred  the  way.  'I  think,  sir,'  she 
said,  'Mrs  Lawford  would  prefer  to  see  you  herself ;  she 
told  me  most  particularly  "all  callers."  And  Mr  Lawford 
was  not  to  be  disturbed  on  any  account.' 

'Disturbed?  God  forbid!'  said  Lawford,  but  his  dark 
eyes  failed  to  move  these  lightest  hazel.  'Well,'  he  con- 
tinued nonchalantly,  'perhaps — perhaps  it  would  be  as  well 
if  Mrs  Lawford  should  know  that  I  am  here.  No,  thank 

you,  I  won't  come  in.     Please  go  and  tell '     But  even 

as  the  maid  turned  to  obey,  Sheila  herself  appeared  at  the 

dining-room  door  in  hat  and  veil. 

70 


The  Return 

Lawford  hesitated  an  immeasurable  moment.  In  one 
swift  glance  he  perceived  the  lamplit  mystery  of  evening, 
beckoning,  calling,  pleading — Fly,  fly!  Home's  here  for 
you.  Begin  again,  begin  again.  And  there  before  him 
in  quiet  and  hostile  decorum  stood  maid  and  mistress. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  stepped  quickly  in.  'So  late,  so 
very  late,  I  fear/  he  began  glibly.  'A  sudden  call,  a  per- 
fectly impossible  distance.  Shall  we  disturb  him,  do  you 
think?' 

'Wouldn't  it,'  began  Sheila  softly,  'be  rather  a  pity  per- 
haps? Dr  Simon  seemed  to  think.  .  .  .  But,  of  course, 
you  must  decide  that.' 

Ada  turned  quiet  small  eyes. 

'No,  no,  by  no  means/  he  almost  mumbled. 

And  a  hard,  slow  smile  passed  over  Sheila's  face. 
'Excuse  me  one  moment/  she  said;  'I  will  see  if  he  is 
awake.'  She  swept  swiftly  forward,  superb  and  tri- 
umphant, beneath  the  gaze  of  those  dark,  restless  eyes. 
But  so  still  was  home  and  street  that  quite  distinctly  a 
clear  and  youthful  laughter  was  heard,  and  light  footsteps 
approaching.  Sheila  paused.  Ada,  in  the  act  of  closing 
the  door,  peered  out.  'Miss  Alice,  ma'am/  she  said. 

And  in  this  infinitesimal  advantage  of  time  Dr  Fer- 
guson had  seized  his  vanishing  opportunity,  and  was  al- 
ready swiftly  mounting  the  stairs.  Mrs  Lawford  stood 
with  veil  half  raised  and  coldly  smiling  lips  and,  as  if  it 
were  by  pre-arrangement,  her  daughter's  laughing  greet- 
ing from  the  garden,  and  from  the  landing  above  her,  a 
faint — 'Ah,  and  how  are  we  now?'  broke  out  simultane- 
ously. And  Ada,  silent  and  discreet,  had  thrown  open  the 
door  again  to  the  twilight  and  to  the  young  people  ascend- 
ing the  steps. 

71 


The  Return 

Law  ford  was  still  sitting  on  his  bed  before  a  cold  and 
ashy  hearth  when  Sheila  knocked  at  the  door. 

'Yes?'  he  said;  'who's  there?'  No  answer  followed. 
He  rose  with  a  shuddering  sigh  and  turned  the  key.  His 
wife  entered. 

'That  little  exhibition  of  finesse  was  part  of  our  agree- 
ment, I  suppose?' 

'I  say '  began  Lawford. 

'To  creep  out  in  my  absence  like  a  thief,  and  to  return 
like  a  mountebank;  that  was  part  of  our  compact?' 

'I  say,'  he  stubbornly  began  again,  'did  you  -wire  for 
Alice?' 

'Will  you  please  answer  my  question?  Am  I  to  be  a 
mere  catspaw  in  your  intrigues,  in  this  miserable  mas- 
querade before  the  servants?  To  set  the  whole  place 
ringing  with  the  name  of  a  doctor  that  doesn't  exist,  and 
a  bedridden  patient  that  slips  out  of  the  house  with  his 
bedroom  key  in  his  pocket !  Are  you  aware  that  Ada  has 
been  hammering  at  your  door  every  half-hour  of  your  ab- 
sence? Are  you  aware  of  that?  How  much,'  she  con- 
tinued in  a  low,  bitter  voice,  'how  much  should  I  offer  for 
her  discretion  ?' 

'Who  was  that  with  Alice?'  inquired  the  same  toneless 
voice. 

'I  refuse  to  be  ignored.  I  refuse  to  be  made  a  child 
of.  Will  you  please  answer  me  ?' 

Lawford  turned.  'Look  here,  Sheila/  he  began  heavily, 
'what  about  Alice?  If  you  wired:  well,  it's  useless  to 
say  anything  more.  But  if  you  didn't,  I  ask  you  just  this 
one  thing.  Don't  tell  her !' 

'Oh,  I  perfectly  appreciate  a  father's  natural  anxiety.' 
72 


The  Return 

Her  husband  drew  up  his  shoulders  as  if  to  receive  a 
blow.  'Yes,  yes,'  he  said,  'but  you  won't?' 

The  sound  of  a  young  laughing  voice  came  faintly  up 
from  below.  'How  did  Jimmie  Fortescue  know  she  was 
coming  home  to-day?' 

'Will  you  not  inquire  of  Jimmie  Fortescue  for  your- 
self?' 

'Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  sneering?'  began  the  dull  voice 
again.  'I  am  horribly  tired,  Sheila.  And  try  how  you 
will,  you  can't  convince  me  that  you  believe  for  a  moment 
that  I  am  not — myself,  that  you  are  as  hard  as  you  pre- 
tend. An  aquaintance,  even  a  friend  might  be  deceived; 
but  husband  and  wife — oh  no !  It  isn't  only  a  man's  face 
that's  himself — or  even  his  hands.'  He  looked  at  them, 
straightened  them  slowly  out,  and  buried  them  in  his 
pockets.  'All  I  care  about  now  is  Alice.  Is  she,  or  is  she 
not  going  to  be  told  ?  I  am  simply  asking  you  to  give  her 
just  a  chance.' 

'  "Simply  asking  me  to  give  Alice  a  chance" ;  now  isn't 
that  really  just  a  little  .  .  .?' 

Law  ford  slowly  shook  his  head.  'You  know  in  your 
heart  it  isn't,  Sheila;  you  understand  me  quite  well,  al- 
though you  persistently  pretend  not  to.  I  can't  argue 
now.  I  can't  speak  up  for  myself.  I  am  just  about  as 
far  down  as  I  can  go.  It's  only  Alice.' 

'I  see;  a  lucid  interval?'  suggested  his  wife  in  a  low, 
trembling  voice. 

'Yes,  yes,  if  you  like,'  said  her  husband  patiently,  '  "a 
lucid  interval."  Don't  please  look  at  my  face  like  that, 
Sheila.  Think — think  that  it's  just  lupus,  just  some 
horrible  disfigurement.' 

73 


The  Return 

Not  much  light  was  in  the  large  room,  and  there  was 
something  so  extraordinarily  characteristic  of  her  husband 
in  those  stooping  shoulders,  in  the  head  hung  a  little  for- 
ward, and  in  the  preternaturally  solemn  voice,  that  Sheila 
had  to  bend  a  little  over  the  bed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
sallow  and  keener  face  again.  She  sighed;  and  even  on 
her  own  strained  ear  her  sigh  sounded  almost  like  one  of 
relief. 

'It's  useless,  I  know,  to  ask  you  anything  while  you 
are  in  this  mood,'  continued  Lawford  dully;  'I  know 
that  of  old.' 

The  white,  ringed  hands  clenched,  '  "Of  old !"  ' 

'I  didn't  mean  anything.  Don't  listen  to  what  I  say. 
It's  only — it's  just  Alice  knowing,  that  was  all ;  I  mean — 
at  once.' 

'Don't  for  a  moment  suppose  I  am  not  perfectly  aware 
that  it  is  only  Alice  you  think  of.  You  were  particularly 
anxious  about  my  feelings,  weren't  you  ?  You  broke  the 
news  to  me  with  the  tenderest  solicitude.  I  am  glad  our — 
our  daughter  shares  my  husband's  love.' 

'Look  here,'  said  Lawford  densely,  'you  know  that  I 
love  you  as  much  as  ever ;  but  with  this — as  I  am ;  what 
would  be  the  good  of  my  saying  so?'  Mrs  Lawford 
took  a  deep  breath. 

And  a  voice  called  softly  at  the  door,  'Mother,  are  you 
there?  Is  father  awake?  May  I  come  in?' 

In  a  flash  the  memory  returned  to  her;  twenty-four 
hours  ago  she  was  asking  that  very  question  of  this  un- 
speakable figure  that  sat  hunched-up  before  her. 

'One  moment,  dear,'  she  called.  And  added  in  a  very 
low  voice,  'Come  here !' 

Lawford  looked  up.    'What?'  he  said. 
74 


The  Return 

'Perhaps,  perhaps,'  she  whispered,  'it  isn't  quite  so  bad.' 

'For  mercy's  sake,  Sheila,'  he  said,  'don't  torture  me; 
tell  the  poor  child  to  go  away.' 

She  paused.  'Are  you  there,  Alice  ?  Would  you  mind, 
father  says,  waiting  a  little  ?  He  is  so  very  tired.' 

'Too  tired  to.  ...  Oh,  very  well,  mother.' 

Mrs  Lawford  opened  the  door,  and  called  after  her, 
'Is  Jimmie  gone?' 

'Oh,  yes,  hours.' 

'Where  did  you  meet?' 

*I  couldn't  get  a  carriage  at  the  station.  He  carried  my 
dressing-bag;  I  begged  him  not  to.  The  other's  coming 
on.  You  know  what  Jimmie  is.  How  very,  very  lucky 
I  did  come  home.  I  don't  know  what  made  me ;  just  an 
impulse ;  they  did  laugh  at  me  so.  Father  dear — do  speak 
to  me ;  how  are  you  now  ?' 

Lawford  opened  his  mouth,  gulped,  and  shook  his  head. 

'Ssh,  dear!'  whispered  Sheila,  'I  think  he  has  fallen 
asleep.  I  will  be  down  in  a  minute.'  Mrs  Lawford  was 
about  to  close  the  door  when  Ada  appeared. 

'If  you  please,  ma'am,'  she  said,  'I  have  been  waiting, 
as  you  told  me,  to  let  Dr  Ferguson  out,  but  it's  nearly 
seven  now ;  and  the  table's  not  laid  yet.' 

'I  really  should  have  thought,  Ada,'  Sheila  began,  then 
caught  back  the  angry  words,  and  turned  and  looked  over 
her  shoulder  into  the  room.  'Do  you  think  you  will  need 
anything  more,  Dr  Ferguson?'  she  asked  in  a  sepulchral 
voice. 

Again  Lawford's  lips  moved ;  again  he  shook  his  head. 

'One  moment,  Ada,'  she  said  closing  the  door.  'Some 
more  medicine — what  medicine?  Quick!  She  mustn't 
suspect.' 

75 


The  Return 

"'What  medicine?"'  repeated  Lawford  stolidly. 

'Oh,  vexing,  vexing;  don't  you  see  we  must  send  her 
out  ?  Don't  you  see  ?  What  was  it  you  sent  to  Critchett's 
for  last  night?  Tell  him  that's  gone:  we  want  more  of 
that.' 

Lawford  stared  heavily.  'Oh,  yes,  yes,'  he  said  thickly, 
'more  of  that.  .  .  .' 

Sheila,  with  a  shrug  of  extreme  distaste  and  vexation, 
hastily  opened  the  door.  'Dr  Ferguson  wants  a  further 
supply  of  the  drug  which  Mr  Critchett  made  up  for  Mr 
Lawford  yesterday  evening.  You  had  better  go  at  once, 
Ada,  and  please  make  as  much  haste  as  you  possibly 
can.' 

'I  say,  I  say,'  began  Lawford;  but  it  was  too  late,  the 
door  was  shut. 

'How  I  detest  this  wretched  falsehood  and  subterfuge. 
What  could  have  induced  you.  .  .  .?' 

'Yes,'  said  her  husband,  'what !  I  think  I'll  be  getting  to 
bed  again,  Sheila ;  I  forgot  I  had  been  ill.  And  now  I  do 
really  feel  very  tired.  But  I  should  like  to  feel — in  spite 
of  this  hideous — I  should  like  to  feel  we  are  friends, 
Sheila.' 

Sheila  almost  imperceptibly  shuddered,  crossed  the 
room,  and  faced  the  still,  almost  lifeless  mask.  'I  spoke,' 
she  said,  in  a  low,  cold,  difficult  voice — 'I  spoke  in  a  temper 
this  morning.  You  must  try  to  understand  what  a  shock 
it  has  been  to  me.  Now,  I  own  it  frankly,  I  know  you 
are — Arthur.  But  God  only  knows  how  it  frightens  me, 
and — and — horrifies  me.'  She  shut  her  eyes  beneath  her 
veil.  They  waited  on  in  silence  a  while. 

'Poor  boy !'  she  said  at  last,  lightly  touching  the  loose 
sleeve;  'be  brave;  it  will  all  come  right,  soon.  Mean- 
76 


The  Return 

while,  for  Alice's  sake,  if  not  for  mine,  don't  give  way  to 
— to  caprices,  and  all  that.  Keep  quietly  here,  Arthur. 
And — and  forgive  my  impatience.' 

He  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  touch  her.  'Forgive  you !' 
he  said  humbly,  pushing  it  stubbornly  back  into  his  pocket 
again.  'Oh,  Sheila,  the  forgiveness  is  all  on  your  side. 
You  know  /  have  nothing  to  forgive.'  A  long  silence  fell 
between  them. 

'Then,  to-night,'  at  last  began  Sheila  wearily,  drawing 
back,  'we  say  nothing  to  Alice,  except  that  you  are  too 
tired — just  nervous  prostration — to  see  her.  What  we 
should  do  without  this  influenza,  I  cannot  conceive.  Mr 
Bethany  will  probably  look  in  on  his  way  home ;  and  then 
we  can  talk  it  over — we  can  talk  it  over  again.  So  long  as 
you  are  like  this,  yourself,  in  mind,  why  I —  What  is  it 
now  ?'  she  broke  off  querulously. 

'If  you  please,  ma'am,  Mr  Critchett  says  he  doesn't 
know  Dr  Ferguson,  his  name's  not  in  the  Directory,  and 
there  must  be  something  wrong  with  the  message,  and  he's 
sorry,  but  he  must  have  it  in  writing  because  there  was 
more  even  in  the  first  packet  than  he  ought  by  rights  to 
send.  What  shall  I  do,  if  you  please?' 

Still  looking  at  her  husband,,  Sheila  listened  quietly  to 
the  end,  and  then,  as  if  in  inarticulate  disdain,  she  deliber- 
ately shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  went  out  to  play  her 
part  unaided. 


77 


Chapter  Seven 


HER  husband  turned  wearily  once  more,  and 
drawing  up  a  chair  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
cold  grate.  He  realised  that  Sheila  thought 
him  as  much  of  a  fool  now  as  she  had  for  the  moment 
thought  him  an  impostor,  or  something  worse,  the  night 
before.  That  was  at  least  something  gained.  He  real- 
ised, too,  in  a  vague  way  that  the  exuberance  of  mind  that 
had  practically  invented  Dr  Ferguson,  and  outraged  Miss 
Sinnet,  had  quite  suddenly  flickered  out.  It  was  astonish- 
ing, he  thought,  with  gaze  fixed  innocently  on  the  black 
coals,  that  he  should  ever  have  done  such  things.  He 
detested  that  kind  of  'rot' ;  that  jaunty  theatrical  pose  so 
many  men  prided  their  jackdaw  brains  on. 

And  he  sat  quite  still,  like  a  cat  at  a  cranny,  listening, 
as  it  were,  for  the  faintest  remotest  stir  that  might  hint  at 
any  return  of  this — activity.  It  was  the  first  really  sane 
moment  he  had  had  since  the  'change.'  Whatever  it  was 
that  had  happened  at  Widderstone  was  now  distinctly 
weakening  in  effect.  Why,  now,  perhaps?  He  stole  a 
thievish  look  over  his  shoulder  at  the  glass,  and  cautiously 
drew  finger  and  thumb  down  that  beaked  nose.  Then  he 
really  quietly  smiled,  a  smile  he  felt  this  abominable  facial 
caricature  was  quite  unused  to,  the  superior  Lawf  ord  smile 
of  guileless  contempt  for  the  fanatical,  the  fantastic,  and 
the  bizarre:  He  wouldn't  have  sat  with  his  feet  on  the 
fender  before  a  burnt-out  fire. 
78 


The  Return 

And  the  animosity  of  that  'he,'  uttered  only  just  under 
his  breath,  surprised  even  himself.  It  actually  did  seem 
as  if  there  were  a  chance;  if  only  he  kept  cool  and  col- 
lected. If  the  whole  mind  of  a  man  was  bent  on  being  one 
thing,  surely  no  power  on  earth,  certainly  not  on  earth, 
could  for  long  compel  him  to  look  another,  any  more 
(followed  the  resplendent  thought)  than  vice  versa. 

That,  in  fact,  was  the  trick  that  had  been  in  fitful 
fashion  played  him  since  yesterday.  Obviously,  and  apart 
altogether  from  his  promise  to  Sheila,  the  best  possible 
thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  walk  quietly  over  to  Widder- 
stone  to-morrow  and  like  a  child  that  has  lost  a  penny, 
just  make  the  attempt  to  reverse  the  process:  look  at  the 
graves,  read  the  inscriptions  on  the  weather-beaten  stones, 
compose  himself  once  more  to  sleep  on  the  little  seat. 

Magic,  witchcraft,  possession,  and  all  that — well,  Mr. 
Bethany  might  prefer  to  take  it  on  the  authority  of  the 
Bible  if  it  was  his  duty.  But  it  was  at  least  mainly  Old 
Testament  stuff,  like  polygamy,  Joshua,  and  the  'unclean 
beasts.'  The  'unclean  beasts.'  It  was  simply,  as  Simon 
had  said,  mainly  an  affair  of  the  nerves,  like  Indian  jug- 
glery. He  had  heard  of  dozens  of  such  cases,  or  similar 
cases.  And  it  was  hardly  likely  that  cases  even  remotely 
like  his  own  would  be  much  bragged  about,  or  advertised. 
All  those  mysterious  'disappearances/  too,  which  one  reads 
about  so  repeatedly  ?  What  of  them  ?  Even  now,  he  felt 
(and  glanced  swiftly  behind  him  at  the  fancy),  it  would 
be  better  to  think  as  softly  as  possible,  not  to  hope  too 
openly,  certainly  not  to  triumph  in  the  least  degree,  just 
in  case  of — well — listeners. 

He  would  wrap  up  too.  And  he  wouldn't  tell  Sheila 
of  the  project  till  he  had  come  safely  back.  What  an 

79 


The  Return 

excellent  joke  it  would  be  to  confess  meekly  to  his  es- 
capade, and  to  be  scolded,  and  then  suddenly  to  reveal  him- 
self. He  sat  back  and  gazed  with  an  almost  malignant 
animosity  at  the  face  in  the  portrait,  comely  and  plump. 

An  inarticulate,  unfathomable  depression  rolled  back  on 
him,  like  a  mist  out  of  the  sea.  He  hastily  undressed,  put 
watch  and  door-key  and  Critchett's  powder  under  his 
pillow,  paused,  vacantly  ruminated,  and  then  replaced  the 
powder  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  said  his  prayers,  and  got 
shivering  to  bed.  He  did  not  feel  hurt  at  Sheila's  leaving 
him  like  this.  So  long  as  she  really  believed  in  him.  And 
now — Alice  was  home.  He  listened,  trying  not  to  shiver, 
for  her  voice ;  and  sometimes  heard,  he  fancied,  the  clear 
note.  It  was  this  beastly  influenza  that  made  him  feel 
so  cold  and  lifeless.  But  all  would  soon  come  right — 
that  is,  if  only  that  face,  luminous  against  the  floating 
darkness  within,  would  not  appear  the  instant  he  closed 
his  eyes. 

But  legions  of  dreams  are  Influenza's  allies.  He  fell 
into  a  chill  doze,  heard  voices  innumerable,  and  one  above 
the  rest,  shouting  them  down,  until  there  fell  a  lull,  and 
another,  as  it  were,  from  afar  said  quite  clearly  and  dis- 
tinctly, 'But  surely,  my  dear,  you  have  heard  the  story  of 
the  poor  old  charwoman  who  talked  Greek  in  her  delirium  ? 
A  little  school  French  need  not  alarm  us.'  And  Law  ford 
opened  his  eyes  again  on  Mr  Bethany  standing  at  his  bed- 
side. 

Tt,  tt!  There,  I've  been  and  waked  him.  And  yet 
they  say  men  make  such  excellent  nurses  in  time  of  war. 
But  you  see,  Lawford,  what  did  I  tell  you?  Wasn't  I  now 
an  infallible  prophet?  Your  wife  has  been  giving  me  a 
most  glowing  account.  Quite  your  old  self,  she  tells  me, 
80 


The  Return 

except  for  just  this^ — this  touch  of  facial  paralysis.  And 
I  think,  do  you  know'  (the  kind  old  creature  stooped  over 
the  bed,  but  still,  Lawford  noticed  bitterly,  still  without  his 
spectacles) — 'yes,  I  really  think  there  is  a  decided  im- 
provement. Not  quite  so — drawn.  We  must  make  haste 
slowly.  Wedderburn,  you  know,  believes  profoundly  in 
Simon;  he  pulled  his  wife  through  a  dangerous  confine- 
ment. And  here's  pills  and  tonics  and  liniments — a  whole 
chemist's  shop.  Oh,  we  are  getting  on  swimmingly.' 

Flamelight  was  flickering  in  the  candled  dusk.  Law- 
ford  turned  his  head  and  saw  Sheila's  coiled,  beautiful 
hair  in  the  firelight. 

'You  haven't  told  Alice?'  he  asked. 

'My  dear  good  man,'  said  Mr  Bethany,  'of  course  we 
haven't.  You  shall  tell  her  yourself  on  Monday.  What 
an  incredible  tradition  it  will  be !  But  you  mustn't  worry ; 
you  mustn't  even  think.  And  no  more  of  these  jaunts, 
eh?  That  Ferguson  business — that  was  too  bad.  What 
are  we  going  to  do  with  the  fellow  now  we  have  created 
him?  He  will  come  home  to  roost — mark  my  words. 
And  as  likely  as  not  down  the  Vicarage  chimney.  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you,  my  dear  fellow.'  He 
beamed,  but  looked,  none  the  less,  very  lean  and  fagged 
and  depressed. 

'How  did  the  wedding  go  off?'  Lawford  managed  to 
think  of  inquiring. 

'Oh,  A i/  said  Mr  Bethany.  'I've  just  been  describing 
it  to  Alice — the  bride,  her  bridegroom,  mother,  aunts, 
cake,  presents,  finery,  blushes,  tears,  and  everything  that 
was  hers.  We've  been  in  fits,  haven't  we,  Mrs  Lawford  ? 
And  Alice  says  I'm  a  Worth  in  a  clerical  collar — didn't 
she?  And  that  it's  only  Art  that  has  kept  me  out  of  an 

81 


The  Return 

apron.  Now  look  here;  quiet,  quiet,  quiet;  no  excite- 
ment, no  pranks.  What  is  there  to  worry  about,  pray? 
And  now  Little  Dorrit's  down  with  influenza  too.  And 
Craik  and  I  will  have  double  work  to  do.  Well,  well; 
good-bye,  my  dear.  God  bless  you,  Law  ford.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  relieved,  how  unspeakably  relieved  I  am  to  find 
you  so  much — so  much  better.  Feed  him  up,  my  other 
dear ;  body  and  mind  and  soul  and  spirit.  And  there  goes 
the  bell.  I  must  have  a  biscuit.  I've  swallowed  nothing 
but  a  Cupid  in  plaister  of  Paris  since  breakfast.  Good- 
night ;  we  shall  miss  you  both — both.' 

But  when  Sheila  returned,  her  husband  was  sunk  again 
into  a  quiet  sleep,  from  which  not  even  the  many  questions 
she  fretted  to  put  to  him  seemed  weighty  enough  to  war- 
rant his  disturbance. 

So  when  Lawford  again  opened  his  eyes  he  found 
himself  lying  wide  awake,  clear  and  refreshed,  and  eager 
to  get  up.  But  upon  the  air  lay  the  still  hush  of  early 
morning.  He  tried  in  vain  to  catch  back  sleep  again.  A 
distant  shred  of  dream  still  floated  in  his  mind,  like  a 
cloud  at  evening.  He  rarely  dreamed,  but  certainly  some- 
thing immensely  interesting  had  but  a  moment  ago  eluded 
him.  He  sat  up  and  looked  at  the  clear  red  cinders  and 
their  maze  of  grottoes.  He  got  out  of  bed  and  peeped 
through  the  blinds.  To  the  east  and  opposite  to  him 
gardens  and  an  apple-orchard  lay,  and  there  in  strange 
liquid  tranquillity  hung  the  morning  star,  and  rose,  rilling 
into  the  dusk  of  night,  the  first  grey  of  dawn.  The  street 
beneath  its  autumn  leaves  was  vacant,  charmed,  deserted. 

Hardly  since  childhood  had  Lawford  seen  the  dawn 
unless  over  his  winter  breakfast-table.  Very  much  like  a 
child  now  he  stood  gazing  out  of  his  bow- window — the 
82 


The  Return 

child  whom  Time's  busy  robins  had  long  ago  covered 
over  with  the  leaves  of  numberless  hours.  A  vague  ex- 
ulation  fumed  up  into  his  brain.  Still  on  the  borders 
of  sleep,  he  unlocked  the  great  wardrobe  and  took  out  an 
old  faded  purple  and  crimson  dressing-gown  that  had  be- 
longed to  his  grandfather,  the  chief  glory  of  every  Christ- 
mas charade.  He  pulled  the  cowl-like  hood  over  his  head 
and  strode  majestically  over  to  the  looking-glass. 

He  looked  in  there  a  moment  on  the  strange  face,  like 
a  child  dismayed  at  its  own  excitement,  and  a  fit  of  sob- 
bing that  was  half  uncontrollable  laughter  swept  over 
him.  He  threw  off  the  hood  and  turned  once  more  to  the 
window.  Consciousness  had  flooded  back  indeed.  What 
would  Sheila  have  said  to  see  him  there  ?  The  unearthly 
beauty  and  stillness,  and  man's  small  labours,  garden  and 
wall  and  roof-tree  idle  and  smokeless  in  the  light  of  day- 
break— there  seemed  to  be  some  half -told  secret  between 
them.  What  had  life  done  with  him  to  leave  a  reality  so 
clouded  ?  He  put  on  his  slippers,  and,  gently  opening  the 
door,  crept  with  extreme  caution  up  the  stairs.  At  a  long, 
narrow  landing  window  he  confronted  a  panorama  of 
starry  night — gardens,  sloping  orchards;  and  beyond 
them  fields,  hills,  Orion,  the  Dogs,  in  the  clear  and  cloud- 
less darkness. 

'My  God,  how  beautiful!'  a  voice  whispered.  And  a 
cock  crowed  mistily  afar.  He  stood  staring  like  a  child 
into  the  wintry  brightness  of  a  pastry-cook's.  Then 
once  more  he  crept  stealthily  on.  He  stooped  and  listened 
at  a  closed  door,  until  he  fancied  that  above  the  beating  of 
his  own  heart  he  could  hear  the  breathing  of  the  sleeper 
within.  Then,  taking  firm  hold  of  the  handle  with  both 

83 


The  Return 

hands,  he  slowly  noiselessly  turned  it,  and  peeped  in  on 
Alice. 

The  moon  was  long  past  her  faint  shining  here.  The 
blind  was  down.  And  yet  it  was  not  pitch  dark.  He 
stood  with  eyes  fixed,  waiting.  Then  he  edged  softly  for- 
ward and  knelt  down  beside  the  bed.  He  could  hear  her 
breathing  now :  long,  low,  quiet,  unhastening — the  miracle 
of  life.  He  could  just  dimly  discern  the  darkness  of  her 
hair  against  the  pillow.  Some  long-sealed  spring  of  ten- 
derness seemed  to  rise  in  his  heart  with  a  grief  and  an  ache 
he  had  never  known  before.  Here  at  least  he  could  find 
a  little  peace,  a  brief  pause,  however  futile  and  stupid  all 
his  hopes  of  the  night  had  been.  He  leant  his  head  on  his 
hands  on  the  counterpane  and  refused  to  think.  He  felt 
a  quick  tremor,  a  startled  movement,  and  knew  that  eyes 
wide  open  with  fear  were  striving  to  pierce  the  gloom  be- 
tween them. 

'There,  there,  dearest,'  he  said  in  a  low  whisper,  'it's 
only  me,  only  me.'  He  stroked  the  narrow  hand  and 
gazed  into  the  shadowiness.  Her  fingers  lay  quiet  and 
passive  in  his,  with  that  strange  sense  of  immateriality 
that  sleep  brings  to  the  body. 

'You,  you !'  she  answered  with  a  deep  sigh.  'Oh,  dear- 
est, how  you  frightened  me.  What  is  wrong?  why  have 
you  come?  Are  you  worse,  dearest,  dearest?' 

He  kissed  her  hand.  'No,  Alice,  not  worse.  I  couldn't 
sleep,  that  was  all.' 

'Oh,  and  I  came  so  utterly  miserable  to  bed  because 
you  would  not  see  me.  And  Mother  would  tell  me  only  so 
very  little.  I  didn't  even  know  you  had  been  ill.'  She 
pressed  his  hand  between  her  own.  'But  this,  you  know, 
84 


The  Return 

is  very,  very  naughty — you  will  catch  cold,  you  bad  thing. 
What  would  Mother  say?' 

'I  think  we  mustn't  tell  her,  dear.  I  couldn't  help  it ;  I 
felt  much  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  have  been  rather  miser- 
able.' 

'Why  ?'  she  said,  stroking  his  hand  from  wrist  to  finger- 
tips with  one  soft  finger.  'You  mustn't  be  miserable. 
You  and  me  have  never  done  such  a  thing  before;  have 
we?  Was  it  that  wretched  old  Flu?' 

It  was  too  dark  in  the  little  fragrant  room  even  to  see 
her  face  so  close  to  his  own.  And  yet  he  feared.  'Dr 
Simon,'  she  went  on  softly,  'said  it  was.  But  isn't  your 
voice  a  little  hoarse,  and  it  sounds  so  melancholy  in  the 
dark.  And  oh' — she  squeezed  his  wrist — 'you  have 
grown  so  thin!  You  do  frighten  me.  Whatever  should 
I  do  if  you  were  really  ill?  And  it  was  so  odd,  dear. 
When  first  I  woke  I  seemed  to  be  still  straining  my  eyes 
in  a  dream,  at  such  a  curious,  haunting  face — not  very 
nice.  I  am  glad,  I  am  glad  you  were  here.' 

'What  was  the  dream- face  like?'  came  the  muttered 
question. 

'Dark  and  sharp,  and  rather  dwelling  eyes ;  you  know 
those  long  faces  one  sees  in  dreams :  like  a  hawk,  like  a 
conjuror's.' 

Like  a  conjuror's ! — it  was  the  first  unguarded  and  un- 
garbled  criticism.  'Perhaps,  dear,  if  you  find  my  voice 
different,  and  my  hand  shrunk  up,  you  will  find  my  face 
changed,  too — like  a  conjuror's.  .  .  .  What  then?' 

She  laughed  gaily  and  tenderly.  'You  silly  silly;  I 
should  love  you  more  than  ever.  Your  hands  are  icy  cold. 
I  can't  warm  them  nohow.' 

85 


The  Return 

Lawford  held  tight  his  daughter's  hand.  'You  do  love 
me,  Alice?  You  would  not  turn  against  me,  whatever 
happened?  Ah,  you  shall  see,  you  shall  see.'  A  sudden 
burning  hope  sprang  up  in  him.  Surely  when  all  was 
well  again,  these  last  few  hours  would  not  have  been  spent 
in  vain.  Like  the  shadow  of  death  they  had  been,  against 
whose  darkness  the  green  familiar  earth  seems  beautiful 
as  the  plains  of  paradise.  Had  he  but  realized  before 
how  much  he  loved  her — what  years  of  life  had  been 
wasted  in  leaving  it  all  unsaid!  He  came  back  from 
his  reverie  to  find  his  hand  wet  with  her  tears.  He 
stroked  her  hair,  and  touched  gently  her  eyelids  without 
speaking. 

'You  will  let  me  come  in  to-morrow?'  she  pleaded; 
'you  won't  keep  me  out  ?' 

'Ah,  but,  dear,  you  must  remember  your  mother.  She 
gets  so  anxious,  and  every  word  the  doctor  says  is  law. 
How  would  you  like  me  to  come  again  like  this,  perhaps  ? 
— like  Santa  Claus?' 

'You  know  how  I  love  having  you,'  she  said,  and 
stopped.  'But — but  .  .  .'  He  leaned  closer.  'Yes,  yes, 
come,'  she  said,  clutching  his  hand  and  hiding  her  eyes; 
'it  is  only  my  dream — that  horrible,  dwelling  face  in  the 
dream;  it  frightened  me  so.' 

Lawford  rose  very  slowly  from  his  knees.  He  could 
feel  in  the  dark  his  brows  drawn  down ;  there  came  a  low, 
sullen  beating  on  his  ear ;  he  saw  his  face  as  it  were  in  dim 
outline  against  the  dark.  Rage  and  rebellion  surged  up 
in  him ;  even  his  love  could  be  turned  to  bitterness.  Well, 
two  could  play  at  any  game !  Alice  sprang  up  in  bed  and 
caught  his  sleeve.  'Dearest,  dearest,  you  must  not  be 
angry  with  me  now !' 
86 


The  Return 

He  flung  himself  down  beside  the  bed.  Anger,  resent- 
ment died  away.  'You  are  all  I  have  left,'  he  said. 

He  stole  back,  as  he  had  come,  in  the  clear  dawn  to  his 
bedroom. 

It  was  not  five  yet.  He  put  a  few  more  coals  on  his 
fire  and  blew  out  the  night-light,  and  lay  down.  But  it 
was  impossible  to  rest,  to  remain  inactive.  He  would  go 
down  and  search  for  that  first  volume  of  Quain.  Hal- 
lucination, Influenza,  Insanity — why,  Sheila  must  have 
purposely  mislaid  it.  A  rather  formidable  figure  he 
looked,  descending  the  stairs  in  the  grey  dusk  of  daybreak. 
The  breakfast-room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house.  He 
tilted  the  blind,  and  a  faint  light  flowed  in  from  the 
changing  colours  of  the  sky.  He  opened  the  glass  door 
of  the  little  bookcase  to  the  right  of  the  window,  and  ran 
eye  and  finger  over  the  few  rows  of  books.  But  as  he 
stood  there  with  his  back  to  the  room,  just  as  the  shadow 
of  a  bird's  wing  floats  across  the  moonlight  of  a  pool,  he 
became  suddenly  conscious  that  something,  somebody  had 
passed  across  the  doorway,  and  in  passing  had  looked  in 
on  him. 

He  stood  motionless,  listening;  but  no  sound  broke  the 
morning  slumbrousness,  except  the  faraway  warbling  of 
a  thrush  in  the  first  light.  So  sudden  and  transitory  had 
been  the  experience  that  it  seemed  now  to  be  illusory ;  yet 
it  had  so  caught  him  up,  it  had  with  so  furtive  and  sinister 
a  quietness  broken  in  on  his  solitude,  that  for  a  moment 
he  dared  not  move.  A  cold,  indefinite  sensation  stole 
over  him  that  he  was  being  watched ;  that  some  dim,  evil 
presence  was  behind  him  biding  its  time,  patient  and 
stealthy,  with  eyes  fixed  unmovingly  on  him  where  he 
stood.  But,  watch  and  wait  as  silently  as  he  might,  only 

87 


The  Return 

the  day  broadened  at  the  window,  and  at  last  a  narrow 
ray  of  sunlight  stole  trembling  up  into  the  dusky  bowl  of 
the  sky. 

At  any  rate  Quain  was  found,  with  all  the  ills  of  life, 
from  A  to  I ;  and  Lawford  turned  back  to  his  bondage 
with  the  book  under  his  arm. 


88 


Chapter  Eight 


THE  Sabbath,  pale  with  September  sunshine,  and 
monotonous    with   chiming   bells,    had   passed 
languidly   away.      Dr    Simon   had   come   and 
gone,  optimistic  and  urbane,  yet  with  a  faint  inward  dis- 
satisfaction over  a  patient  behind  whose  taciturnity  a  hint 
of  mockery  and  subterfuge  seemed    to  lurk.     Even  Mrs 
Lawford  had  appeared  to  share  her  husband's  reticence. 
But  Dr  Simon  had  happened  on  other  cases  in  his  experi- 
ence where  tact  was  required  rather  than  skill,  and  time 
than  medicine. 

The  voices  and  footsteps,  even  the  frou-frou  of  wor- 
shippers going  to  church,  the  voices  and  footsteps  of 
worshippers  returning  from  church,  had  floated  up  to  the 
patient's  open  window.  Sunlight  had  drawn  across  his 
room  in  one  pale  beam,  and  vanished.  A  few  callers  had 
called.  Hothouse  flowers,  waxen  and  pale,  had  been  left 
with  messages  of  sympathy.  Even  Mr  Critchett  had 
respectfully  and  discreetly  made  inquiries  on  his  way 
home  from  chapel. 

Lawford  had  spent  most  of  his  time  in  pacing  to  and 
fro  in  his  soft  slippers.  The  very  monotony  had  eased 
his  mind.  Now  and  again  he  had  lain  motionless,  with 
his  face  to  the  ceiling.  He  had  dozed  and  had  awakened, 
cold  and  torpid  with  dream.  He  had  hardly  been  aware 
of  the  process,  but  every  hour  had  done  something,  it 
seemed,  towards  clarifying  his  point  of  view.  A  con- 

89 


The  Return 

sciousness  had  begun  to  stir  in  him  that  was  neither  that  of 
the  old,  easy  Law  ford,  whom  he  had  never  been  fully 
aware  of  before,  nor  of  this  strange  ghostly  intelligence 
that  haunted  the  hawklike,  restless  face,  and  plucked  so 
insistently  at  his  distracted  nerves.  He  had  begun  in  a 
vague  fashion  to  be  aware  of  them  both,  could  in  a  fashion 
discriminate  between  them,  almost  as  if  there  really  were 
two  spirits  in  stubborn  conflict  within  him.  It  would,  of 
course,  wear  him  down  in  time.  There  could  be  only  one 
end  to  such  a  struggle — the  end. 

All  day  he  had  longed  for  freedom,  on  and  on,  with 
craving  for  the  open  sky,  for  solitude,  for  green  silence, 
beyond  these  maddening  walls.  This  heedful  silken 
coming  and  going,  these  Sunday  voices,  this  reiterant  yelp 
of  a  single  peevish  bell — would  they  never  cease?  And 
above  all,  betwixt  dread  and  an  almost  physical  greed,  he 
hungered  for  night.  He  sat  down  with  elbows  on  knees 
and  head  on  his  hands,  thinking  of  night,  its  secrecy,  its 
immeasurable  solitude. 

His  eyelids  twitched ;  the  fire  before  him  had  for  an  in- 
stant gone  black  out.  He  seemed  to  see  slow-gesturing 
branches,  grass  stooping  beneath  a  grey  and  wind-swept 
sky.  He  started  up;  and  the  remembrance  of  the  morn- 
ing returned  to  him — the  glassy  light,  the  changing  rays, 
the  beaming  gilt  upon  the  useless  books.  Now,  at  last, 
at  the  windows;  afternoon  had  begun  to  wane.  And 
when  Sheila  brought  up  his  tea,  as  if  Chance  had  heard 
his  cry,  she  entered  in  hat  and  stole.  She  put  down  the 
tray,  and  paused  at  the  glass,  looking  across  it  out  of  the 
window. 

'Alice  says  you  are  to  eat  every  one  of  those  delicious 
sandwiches,  and  especially  the  tiny  omelette.  You  have 
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The  Return 

scarcely  touched  anything  to-day,  Arthur.  I  am  a  poor 
one  to  preach,  I  am  afraid ;  but  you  know  what  that  will 
mean — a  worse  breakdown  still.  You  really  must  try  to 
think  of — of  us  all.' 

'Are  you  going  to  church?'  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

'Not,  of  course,  if  you  would  prefer  not.  But  Dr 
Simon  advised  me  most  particularly  to  go  out  at  least 
once  a  day.  We  must  remember,  this  is  not  the  beginning 
of  your  illness.  Long-corttinued  anxiety,  I  suppose,  does 
tell  on  one  in  time.  Anyhow,  he  said  that  I  looked 
worried  and  run-down.  I  am  worried.  Let  us  both  try 
for  each  other's  sakes,  or  even  if  only  for  Alice's,  to — to 
do  all  we  can.  I  must  not  harass  you ;  but  is  there  any — 
do  you  see  the  slightest  change  of  any  kind?' 

'You  always  look  pretty,  Sheila;  to-night  you  look 
prettier :  that  is  the  only  change,  I  think.' 

Mrs  Law  ford's  attitude  intensified  in  its  stillness. 
'Now,  speaking  quite  frankly,  what  is  it  in  you  sugggests 
these  remarks  at  such  a  time?  That's  what  baffles  me. 
It  seems  so  childish,  so  needlessly  blind.' 

'I  am  very  sorry,  Sheila,  to  be  so  childish.  But  I'm  not, 
say  what  you  like,  blind.  You  are  pretty:  I'd  repeat  it 
if  I  was  burning  at  the  stake.' 

Sheila  lowered  her  eyes  softly  on  to  the  rich-toned 
picture  in  the  glass.  'Supposing,'  she  said,  watching  her 
lips  move,  'supposing — of  course,  I  know  you  are  getting 
better  and  all  that — but  supposing  you  don't  change  back 
as  Mr  Bethany  thinks,  what  will  you  do?  Honestly, 
Arthur,  when  I  think  over  it  calmly,  the  whole  tragedy 
comes  back  on  me  with  such  a  force  it  sweeps  me  off  my 
feet;  I  am  for  the  moment  scarcely  my  own  mistress. 
What  would  you  do?' 


The  Return 

'I  think,  Sheila,'  replied  a  low,  infinitely  weary  voice, 
'I  think  I  should  marry  again.'  It  was  the  same  wavering, 
faintly  ironical  voice  that  had  slightly  discomposed  Dr 
Simon  that  same  morning. 

'  "Marry  again" !'  exclaimed  incredulously  the  full  lips 
in  the  looking-glass.  'Who?' 

'Ko»,  dear!* 

Sheila  turned  softly  round,  conscious  in  a  most  humili- 
ating manner  that  she  had  ever  so  little  flushed. 

Her  husband  was  pouring  out  his  tea,  unaware,  appar- 
ently, of  her  change  of  position.  She  watched  him 
curiously.  In  spite  of  all  her  reason,  of  her  absolute 
certainty,  she  wondered  even  again  for  a  moment  if  this 
really  could  be  Arthur.  And  for  the  first  time  she  real- 
ised the  power  and  mastery  of  that  eager  and  far  too 
hungry  face.  Her  mind  seemed  to  pause,  fluttering  in 
air,  like  a  bird  in  the  wind.  She  hastened  rather  unstead- 
ily to  the  door. 

'Will  you  want  anything  more,  do  you  think,  for  an 
hour  ?'  she  asked. 

Her  husband  looked  up  over  his  little  table.  Is  Alice 
going  with  you  ?' 

'Oh  yes;  poor  child,  she  looks  so  pale  and  miserable. 
We  are  going  to  Mrs  Sherwin's,  and  then  on  to  Church. 
You  will  lock  your  door?' 

'Yes,  I  will  lock  my  door.' 

'And  I  do  hope  Arthur — nothing  rash !' 

A  change,  that  seemed  almost  the  effect  of  actual 
shadow,  came  over  his  face.  'I  wish  you  could  stay  with 
me,'  he  said  slowly.  'I  don't  think  you  have  any  idea 
what — what  I  go  through.' 

It  was  as  if  a  child  had  asked  on  the  verge  of  terror  for 
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The  Return 

a  candle  in  the  dark.  But  an  hour's  terror  is  better  than 
a  lifetime  of  timidity.  Sheila  sighed. 

'I  think,'  she  said,  'I  too  might  say  that.  But  there; 
giving  way  will  do  nothing  for  either  of  us.  I  shall  be 
gone  only  for  an  hour,  or  two  at  the  most.  And  I  told  Mr 
Bethany  I  should  have  to  come  out  before  the  sermon :  it's 
only  Mr  Craik.' 

'But  why  Mrs  Sherwin?  She'd  worm  a  secret  out  of 
one's  grave.' 

'It's  useless  to  discuss  that,  Arthur;  you  have  always 
consistently  disliked  my  friends.  It's  scarcely  likely  that 
you  would  find  any  improvement  in  them  now.' 

'Oh,  well '  he  began.  But  the  door  was  already 

closed. 

'Sheila !'  he  called  in  a  burst  of  anger. 

'Well,  Arthur?' 

'You  have  taken  my  latchkey/ 

Sheila  came  hastily  in  again.     'Your  latchkey?' 

'I  am  going  out.' 

'  "Going  out !" — you  will  not  be  so  mad,  so  criminal ; 
and  after  your  promise!' 

He  stood  up.  'It  is  useless  to  argue.  If  I  do  not  go 
out,  I  shall  certainly  go  mad.  As  for  criminal — why, 
that's  a  woman's  word.  Who  on  earth  is  to  know  me  ?' 

'It  is  of  no  consequence,  then,  that  the  servants  are  al- 
ready gossiping  about  this  impossible  Dr  Ferguson;  that 
you  are  certain  to  be  seen  either  going  or  returning;  that 
Alice  is  bound  to  discover  that  you  are  well  enough  to  go 
out,  and  yet  not  well  enough  to  say  good-night  to  your 
own  daughter — oh,  it's  monstrous,  it's  a  frantic,  a  heartless 
thing  to  do!'  Her  voice  vaguely  suggested  tears. 

Law  ford  eyed  her  coldly  and  stubbornly — thinking  of 

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The  Return 

the  empty  room  he  would  leave  awaiting  his  return,  its 
lamp  burning,  its  fireflames  shining.  It  was  almost  a 
physical  discomfort,  this  longing  unspeakable  for  the  twi- 
light, the  green  secrecy  and  the  silence  of  the  graves. 
'Keep  them  out  of  the  way,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice;  'it  will 
be  dark  when  I  come  in.'  His  hardened  face  lit  up. 
'It's  useless  to  attempt  to  dissuade  me.' 

'Why  must  you  always  be  hurting  me?  why  do  you 
seem  to  delight  in  trying  to  estrange  me?'  Husband  and 
wife  faced  each  other  across  the  clear-lit  room.  He  did 
not  answer. 

'For  the  last  time/  she  said  in  a  quiet,  hard  voice,  'I  ask 
you  not  to  go.' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  'Ask  me  not  to  come  back,' 
he  said ;  'that's  neaf er  your  hope.'  He  turned  his  face  to 
the  fire.  Without  moving  he  heard  her  go  out,  return, 
pause,  and  go  out  again.  And  when  he  deliberately 
wheeled  round  in  his  chair  the  little  key  lay  conspicuous 
there  on  the  counterpane. 


94 


Chapter  Nine 


THE  last  light  of  sunset  lay  in  the  west;  and  a 
sullen  wrack  of  cloud  was  mounting  into  the 
windless  sky  when  Lawford  entered  the  country 
graveyard  again  by  its  dark  weather-worn  lych-gate. 
The  old  stone  church  with  its  square  tower  stood  amid 
trees,  its  eastern  window  faintly  aglow  with  crimson  and 
purple.  He  could  hear  a  steady,  rather  nasal  voice 
through  its  open  lattices.  But  the  stooping  stones  and 
the  cypresses  were  out  of  sight  of  its  porch.  He  would 
not  be  seen  down  there.  He  paused  a  moment,  however ; 
his  hat  was  drawn  down  over  his  eyes ;  he  was  shivering. 
Far  over  the  harvest  fields  showed  a  growing  pallor  in  the 
sky.  He  would  have  the  moon  to  go  home  by. 

'Home!' — these  trees,  this  tongueless  companionship, 
this  heavy  winelike  air,  this  soundless  turf — these  in 
some  obscure  desolate  fashion  seemed  far  rather  really 
home.  His  eyes  wandered  towards  the  fading  crimson. 
And  with  that  on  his  right  hand  he  began  softly,  almost 
on  tiptoe,  descending  the  hill.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
steady  eyes  of  the  dead  were  watching  him  in  his  slow 
progress.  The  air  was  echoing  with  little  faint,  clear  calls. 
He  turned  and  snapped  his  fingers  at  a  robin  that  was 
stalking  him  with  its  stony  twittering  from  bush  to  bush. 

But  when  after  some  little  time  he  actually  came  out  of 
the  narrow  avenue  and  looked  down,  his  heart  misgave 
him,  for  some  one  was  already  sitting  there  on  his  low  and 

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The  Return 

solitary  seat  beneath  the  cypresses.  He  stood  hesitating, 
gazing  steadily  and  yet  half  vacantly  at  the  motionless 
figure,  and  in  a  while  a  face  was  lifted  in  his  direction, 
and  undisconcerted  eyes  calmly  surveyed  him. 

'I  am  afraid,'  called  Lawford  rather  nervously — 'I  hope 
I  am  not  intruding?' 

'Not  at  all,  not  at  all,'  said  the  stranger.  'I  have  no 
privileges  here ;  at  least  as  yet.' 

Lawford  again  hesitated,  then  slowly  advanced.  'It's 
astonishingly  quiet  and  beautiful,'  he  said. 

The  stranger  turned  his  head  to  glance  over  the  fields. 
'Yes,  it  is,  very,'  he  replied.  There  was  the  faintest 
accent,  a  little  drawl  of  unfriendliness  in  the  remark. 

'You  often  sit  here?'  Lawford  persisted. 

The  stranger  raised  his  eyebrows.  'Oh  yes,  often.' 
He  smiled.  'It  is  my  own  modest  fashion  of  attending 
divine  service.  The  congregation  is  rapt.' 

'My  visits,'  said  Lawford,  'have  been  very  few — in 
fact,  so  far  as  I  know,  I  have  only  once  been  here  before.' 

'I  envy  you  the  novelty.'  There  was  again  the  same 
faint  unmistakable  antagonism  in  voice  and  attitude; 
and  yet  so  deep  was  the  relief  in  talking  to  a  fellow  crea- 
ture who  hadn't  the  least  suspicion  of  anything  unusual  in 
his  appearance  that  Lawford  was  extremely  disinclined  to 
turn  back.  He  made  another  effort — for  conversation 
with  strangers  had  always  been  a  difficulty  to  him — and 
advanced  towards  the  seat.  'You  mustn't  please  let  me 
intrude  upon  you,'  he  said,  'but  really  I  am  very  inter- 
ested in  this  queer  old  place.  Perhaps  you  would  tell  me 
something  of  its  history  ?'  He  sat  down.  His  companion 
moved  slowly  to  the  other  side  of  the  broken  gravestone. 

'To  tell  you  the  truth,'  he  replied,  picking  his  way  as  it 
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The  Return 

were  from  word  to  word,  'it's  "history,"  as  people  call  it, 
does  not  interest  me  in  the  least.  After  all,  it's  not  when 
a  thing  is,  but  what  it  is,  that  much  matters.  What  this 
is' — he  glanced,  with  head  bent,  across  the  shadowy  stones 
— 'is  pretty  evident.  Of  course,  age  has  its  charms.' 

'And  is  this  very  old  ?' 

'Oh  yes,  it's  old  right  enough,  as  things  go;  but  even 
age,  perhaps,  is  mainly  an  affair  of  the  imagination. 
There's  a  tombstone  near  that  little  old  hawthorn,  and 
there  are  two  others  side  by  side  under  the  wall,  still  even 
legibly  late  seventeenth  century.  That's  pretty  good 
weathering.'  He  smiled  faintly.  'Of  course,  the  church 
itself  is  centuries  older,  drenched  with  age.  But  she's 
still  sleep-walking  while  these  old  tombstones  dream. 
Glow-worms  and  crickets  are  not  such  bad  bedfellows.' 

'What  interested  me  most,  I  think,'  said  Lawford  halt- 
ingly, 'was  this.'  He  pointed  with  his  stick  to  the  grave 
at  his  feet. 

'Ah,  yes,  Sabathier's,'  said  the  stranger;  'I  know  his 
peculiar  history  almost  by  heart.' 

Lawford  found  himself  staring  with  unusual  concen- 
tration into  the  rather  long  and  pale  face.  'Not,  I  sup- 
pose,' he  resumed  faintly — 'not,  I  suppose,  beyond  what's 
there.' 

His  companion  leant  his  hand  on  the  old  stooping  tomb- 
stone. 'Well,  you  know,  there's  a  good  deal  there' — he 
stooped  over — 'if  you  read  between  the  lines.  Even  if 
you  don't.' 

'A  suicide/  said  Lawford,  under  his  breath. 

'Yes,  a  suicide;  that's  why  our  Christian  countrymen 
have  buried  him  outside  of  the  fold.  Dead  or  alive,  they 
try  to  keep  the  wolf  out.' 

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The  Return 

'Is  this,  then,  unconsecrated  ground?'  said  Law  ford. 

'Haven't  you  noticed/  drawled  the  other,  'how  green 
the  grass  grows  down  here,  and  how  very  sharp  are  poor 
old  Sabathier's  thorns?  Besides,  he  was  a  stranger,  and 
they — kept  him  out.' 

'But,  surely,'  said  Lawford,  'was  it  so  entirely  a  matter 
of  choice — the  laws  of  the  Church?  If  he  did  kill  him- 
self, he  did.' 

The  stranger  turned  with  a  little  shrug.  'I  don't  sup- 
pose it's  a  matter  of  much  consequence  to  him.  I  fancied 
I  was  his  only  friend.  May  I  venture  to  ask  why  you  are 
interested  in  the  poor  old  thing?' 

Lawford's  mind  was  as  calm  and  shallow  as  a  millpond. 
He  fidgeted.  'Oh,  a  rather  unusual  thing  happened  to  me 
here,'  he  said.  'You  say  you  often  come?' 

'Often,'  said  the  stranger  rather  curtly. 

'Has  anything — ever — occurred  ?' 

'  "Occurred  ?"  '  He  raised  his  eyebrows.  'I  wish  it 
had.  I  come  here  simply,  as  I  have  said,  because  it's 
quiet;  because  I  prefer  the  company  of  those  who  never 
answer  me  back,  and  who  do  not  so  much  as  condescend  to 
pay  me  the  least  attention.'  He  smiled  and  turned  his 
face  towards  the  quiet  fields. 

Lawford,  after  a  long  pause,  lifted  his  eyes.  'Do  you 
think,'  he  said  softly,  'it  is  possible  one  ever  could?' 

'"One  ever  could?"' 

'Answer  back?' 

There  was  a  low  rotting  wall  of  stone  encompassing 
Sabathier's  grave;  on  this  the  stranger  sat  down.  He 
glanced  up  rather  curiously  at  his  companion.  'Seldom 
the  time  and  the  place  and  the  revenant  altogether.  The 
thought  has  occurred  to  others,'  he  ventured  to  add. 
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The  Return 

'Of  course,  of  course,'  said  Lawford  eagerly.  'But  it 
is  an  absolutely  new  one  to  me.  I  don't  mean  that  I  have 
never  had  such  an  idea,  just  in  one's  own  superficial  way  ; 
but' — he  paused  and  glanced  swiftly  into  the  fast-thicken- 
ing twilight — 'I  wonder :  are  they,  do  you  think,  really,  all 
quite  dead  ?' 

'Call  and  see !'  taunted  the  stranger  softly. 

'Ah,  yes,  I  know,'  said  Lawford.  'But  I  believe  in  the 
resurrection  of  the  body;  that  is  what  we  say;  and  sup- 
posing, when  a  man  dies — supposing  it  was  most  fright- 
fully against  one's  will ;  that  one  hated  the  awful  inaction 
that  death  brings,  shutting  a  poor  devil  up  like  a  child 
kicking  against  the  door  in  a  dark  cupboard ;  one  might — 
surely  one  might — just  quietly,  you  know,  try  to  get  out? 
wouldn't  you  ?'  he  added. 

'And,  surely,'  he  found  himself  beginning  gently  to 
argue  again,  'surely,  what  about,  say,  him?'  He  nodded 
towards  the  old  and  broken  grave  that  lay  between  them. 

'What,  Sabathier?'  the  other  echoed,  laying  his  hand 
upon  the  stone. 

And  a  sheer  enormous  abyss  of  silence  seemed  to  follow 
the  unanswerable  question. 

'He  was  a  stranger ;  it  says  so.  Good  God !'  said  Law- 
ford,  'how  he  must  have  wanted  to  get  home !  He  killed 
himself,  poor  wretch,  think  of  the  fret  and  fever  he  must 
have  been  in — just  before.  Imagine  it.' 

'But  it  might,  you  know,'  suggested  the  other  with  a 
smile — 'it  might  have  been  sheer  indifference.' 

'  "Nicholas  Sabathier,  Stranger  to  this  parish" — no,  no,' 
said  Lawford,  his  heart  beating  as  if  it  would  choke  him, 
'I  don't  fancy  it  was  indifference.' 

It  was  almost  too  dark  now  to  distinguish  the  stranger's 

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The  Return 

features,  but  there  seemed  a  faint  suggestion  of  irony  in 
his  voice.  'And  how  do  you  suppose  your  angry  naughty 
child  would  set  about  it  ?  It's  narrow  quarters ;  how  would 
he  begin?' 

Law  ford  sat  quite  still.  'You  say — I  hope  I  am  not 
detaining  you — you  say  you  have  come  here,  sat  here 
often,  on  this  very  seat;  have  you  ever  had — have  you 
ever  fallen  asleep  here?' 

'Why  do  you  ask?'  inquired  the  other  curiously. 

'I  was  only  wondering,'  said  Law  ford.  He  was  cold 
and  shivering.  He  felt  instinctively  it  was  madness  to 
sit  on  here  in  the  thin  gliding  mist  that  had  gathered  in 
swathes  above  the  grass,  milk-pale  in  the  rising  moon. 
The  stranger  turned  away  from  him. 

'  "For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come 
must  give  us  pause,"  '  he  said  slowly,  with  a  little  satirical 
catch  on  the  last  word.  'What  did  you  dream  ?' 

Lawford  glanced  helplessly  about  him.  The  moon  cast 
lean  grey  beams  of  light  between  the  cypresses.  But  to 
his  wide  and  wandering  eyes  it  seemed  that  a  radiance 
other  than  hers  haunted  these  mounds  and  leaning  stones. 
'Have  you  ever  noticed  it?'  he  said,  putting  out  his  hand 
towards  his  unknown  companion;  'this  stone  is  cracked 
from  head  to  foot?  .  .  .  But  there' — he  rose  stiff  and 
chilled — 'I  am  afraid  I  have  bored  you  with  my  company. 
You  came  here  for  solitude,  and  I  have  been  trying  to 
convince  you  that  we  are  surrounded  with  witnesses. 
You  will  forgive  my  intrusion?'  There  was  a  kind  of  old- 
fashioned  courtesy  in  his  manner  that  he  himself  was 
dimly  aware  of.  He  held  out  his  hand. 

'I  hope  you  will  think  nothing  of  the  kind/  said  the 
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The  Return 

other  earnestly ;  'how  could  it  be  in  any  sense  an  intrusion  ? 
It's  the  old  story  of  Bluebeard.  And  I  confess  I  too 
should  very  much  like  a  peep  into  his  cupboard.  Who 
wouldn't?  But  there,  it's  merely  a  matter  of  time,  I 
suppose.'  He  paused,  and  together  they  slowly 
ascended  the  path  already  glimmering  with  a  heavy  dew. 
At  the  porch  they  paused  once  more.  And  now  it  was 
the  stranger  that  held  out  his  hand. 

'Perhaps,'  he  said,  'you  will  give  me  the  pleasure  of 
some  day  continuing  our  talk.  As  for  our  friend  below, 
it  so  happens  that  I  have  managed  to  pick  up  a  little  more 
of  his  history  than  the  sexton  seems  to  have  heard  of — if 
you  would  care  some  time  or  other  to  share  it.  I  live  only 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  not  half  a  mile  distant.  Perhaps 
you  could  spare  the  time  now?' 

Law  ford  took  out  his  watch,  'You  are  really  very 
kind,'  he  said.  'But,  perhaps — well,  whatever  that  his- 
tory may  be,  I  think  you  would  agree  that  mine  is  even — 
but,  there,  I've  talked  too  much  about  myself  already. 
Perhaps  to-morrow?' 

'Why,  to-morrow,  then,'  said  his  companion.  'It's  a 
flat  wooden  house,  on  the  left-hand  side.  Come  at  any 
time  of  the  evening';  he  paused  again  and  smiled — 'the 
third  house  after  the  Rectory,  which  is  marked  up  on  the 
gate.  My  name  is  Herbert — Herbert  Herbert  to  be 
precise.' 

Lawford  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  a  card.  'Mine,' 
he  said,  handing  it  gravely  to  his  companion,  'is  Lawford 
— at  least  .  .  .'  It  was  really  the  first  time  that  either 
had  seen  the  other's  face  at  close  quarters  and  clear-lit; 
and  on  Lawford's  a  moon  almost  at  the  full  shone  daz- 

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The  Return 

zlingly.  He  saw  an  expression* — dismay,  incredulity, 
overwhelming  astonishment — start  suddenly  into  the  dark, 
rather  indifferent  eyes. 

'What  is  it?'  he  cried,  hastily  stooping  close. 

'Why,'  said  the  other,  laughing  and  turning  away,  'I 
think  the  moon  must  have  bewitched  me  too.' 


102 


Chapter  Ten 


LAWFORD  listened  awhile  before  opening  his 
door.  He  heard  voices  in  the  dining-room.  A 
light  shone  faintly  between  the  blinds  of  his 
bedroom.  He  very  gently  let  himself  in,  and  unheard, 
unseen,  mounted  the  stairs.  He  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
fire,  tired  out  and  bitterly  cold  in  spite  of  his  long  walk 
home.  But  his  mind  was  wearier  even  than  his  body. 
He  tried  in  vain  to  catch  up  the  thread  of  his  thoughts. 
He  only  knew  for  certain  that  so  far  as  his  first  hope  and 
motives  had  gone  his  errand  had  proved  entirely  futile. 
'How  could  I  possibly  fall  asleep  with  that  fellow  talking 
there?'  he  had  said  to  himself  angrily;  yet  knew  in  his 
heart  that  their  talk  had  driven  every  other  idea  out  of  his 
mind.  He  had  not  yet  even  glanced  into  the  glass.  His 
every  thought  was  vainly  wandering  round  and  round  the 
one  curious  hint  that  had  drifted  in,  but  which  he  had  not 
yet  been  able  to  put  into  words. 

Supposing,  though,  that  he  had  really  fallen  into  a  deep 
sleep,  with  none  to  watch  or  spy — what  then?  However 
ridiculous  that  idea,  it  was  not  more  ridiculous,  more  in- 
credible than  the  actual  fact.  If  he  had  remained  there, 
he  might,  it  was  just  possible  that  he  would  by  now,  have 
actually  awakened  just  his  own  familiar  every-day  self 
again.  And  the  thought  of  that — though  he  hardly  real- 
ised its  full  import — actually  did  send  him  on  tip-toe  for  a 
glance  that  more  or  less  effectually  set  the  question  at  rest. 

103 


The  Return 

And  there  looked  out  at  him,  it  seemed,  the  same  dark 
sallow  face  that  had  so  much  appalled  him  only  two  nights 
ago — expressionless,  cadaverous,  with  shadowy  hollows 
beneath  the  glittering  eyes.  And  even  as  he  watched  it, 
its  lips,  of  their  own  volition,  drew  together  and  ques- 
tioned him — 'Whose?' 

He  was  not  to  be  given  much  leisure,  however,  for 
fantastic  reveries  like  this.  As  he  leaned  his  head  on  his 
hands,  gladly  conscious  that  he  could  not  possibly  bear 
this  incessant  strain  for  long,  Sheila  opened  the  door.  He 
started  up. 

'I  wish  you  would  knock,'  he  said  angrily ;  'you  talk  of 
quiet;  you  tell  me  to  rest,  and  think;  and  here  you  come 
creeping  and  spying  on  me  as  if  I  was  a  child  in  a  nursery. 
I  refuse  to  be  watched  and  guarded  and  peeped  on  like 
this.'  He  knew  that  his  hands  were  trembling,  that  he 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  fixed,  that  his  voice  was  nearly 
inarticulate. 

Sheila  drew  in  her  lips.  'I  have  merely  come  to  tell 
you,  Arthur,  that  Mr  Bethany  has  brought  Mr  Danton 
in  to  supper.  He  agrees  with  me  it  really  would  be  advis- 
able to  take  such  a  very  old  and  prudent  and  practical 
friend  into  our  confidence.  You  do  nothing  I  ask  of  you. 
I  simply  cannot  bear  the  burden  of  this  incessant  anxiety. 
Look,  now,  what  your  night  walk  has  done  for  you !  You 
look  positively  at  death's  door.' 

'What — what  an  instinct  you  have  for  the  right  word,' 
said  Lawford  softly.  'And  Danton,  of  all  people  in  the 
world!  It  was  surely  rather  a  curious,  a  thoughtless 
choice.  Has  he  had  supper?' 

'Why  do  you  ask  ?' 

'He  won't  believe :  too — bloated.' 
104 


The  Return 

'I  think/  said  Sheila  indignantly,  'it  is  hardly  fair  to 
speak  of  a  very  old  and  a  very  true  friend  of  mine  in  such 
— well,  vulgar  terms  as  that.  Besides,  Arthur,  as  for  be- 
lieving— without  in  the  least  desiring  to  hurt  your  feelings 
— I  must  candidly  warn  you,  some  people  won't.' 

'Come  along,'  said  Lawford,  with  a  faint  gust  of 
laughter ;  'let's  see.' 

They  went  quickly  downstairs,  Sheila  with  less  dignity, 
perhaps,  than  she  had  been  surprised  into  since  she  had  left 
a  slimmer  girlhood  behind.  She  swept  into  the  gaze  of 
the  two  gentlemen  standing  together  on  the  hearthrug; 
and  so  was  caught,  as  it  were,  between  a  rain  of  conflict- 
ing glances,  for  her  husband  had  followed  instantly,  and 
stood  now  behind  her,  stooping  a  little,  and  with  something 
between  contempt  and  defiance  confronting  an  old  fat 
friend,  whom  that  one  brief  challenging  instant  had  con- 
gealed into  a  condition  of  passive  and  immovable  hostility. 

Mr  Danton  composed  his  chin  in  his  collar,  and  deliber- 
ately turned  himself  towards  his  companion.  His  small 
eyes  wandered,  and  instantaneously  met  and  rested  on 
those  of  Mrs  Lawford. 

'Arthur  thought  he  would  prefer  to  come  down  and 
see  you  himself.' 

'You  take  such  formidable  risks,  Lawford,'  said  Mr 
Bethany  in  a  dry,  difficult  voice. 

'Am  I  really  to  believe,'  Danton  began  huskily.  'I  am 

sure,  Bethany,  you  will My  dear  Mrs  Lawford!' 

said  he,  stirring  vaguely,  glancing  restlessly. 

'It  was  not  my  wish,  Vicar,  to  come  at  all,'  said  a  voice 
from  the  doorway.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  too  tired 
to  care  a  jot  either  way.  And' — he  lifted  a  long  arm — 
'I  must  positively  refuse  to  produce  the  least,  the  remotest 

105 


The  Return 

proof  that  I  am  not,  so  far  as  I  am  personally  aware,  even 
the  Man  in  the  Moon.  Danton  at  heart  was  always  an  in- 
corrigible sceptic.  Aren't  you,  T.  D.  ?  You  pride  your 
dear  old  brawn  on  it  in  secret?' 

'I  really '  began  Danton  in  a  rich  still  voice. 

'Oh,  but  you  know  you  are,'  drawled  on  the  clear 
slightly  hesitating  long-drawn  syllables;  'it's  your 
parochial  metier.  Firm,  unctuous,  subtle,  scepticism ;  and 
to  that  end  your  body  flourishes.  You  were  born  fat ;  you 
became  fat;  and  fat,  my  dear  Danton,  has  been  deliber- 
ately thrust  on  you — in  layers!  Lampreys!  You'll 
perish  of  surfeit  some  day,  of  sheer  Dantonism.  And 
fat,  post  mortem,  Danton.  Oh,  what  a  basting's  there !' 

Mr  Bethany,  with  a  convulsive  effort,  woke.  He 
turned  swiftly  on  Mrs  Lawford.  'Why,  why,  could  you 
not  have  seen  ?'  he  cried. 

'It's  no  good,  Vicar.  She's  all  sheer  Laodicean.  Blow 
hot,  blow  cold.  North,  south,  east,  west — to  have  a 
weathercock  for  a  wife  is  to  marry  the  wind.  There's 
nothing  to  be  got  from  poor  Sheila  but  .  .  .' 

'Lawford!'  the  little  man's  voice  was  as  sharp  as  the 
crack  of  a  whip ;  'I  forbid  it.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  I  forbid 
it.  Some  self-command ;  my  dear  good  fellow,  remember, 
remember  it's  only  the  will,  the  will  that  keeps  us 
breathing.' 

Lawford  peered  as  if  out  of  a  gathering  dusk,  that 
thickened  and  flickered  with  shadows  before  his  eyes. 
'What's  he  mean,  then,'  he  muttered  huskily,  'coming 
here  with  his  black,  still  carcase — peeping,  peeping — 
what's  he  mean,  I  say?'  There  was  a  moment's  silence. 
Then  with  lifted  brows  and  wide  eyes  that  to  every  one  of 
his  three  witnesses  left  an  indelible  memory  of  clear  and 
106 


The  Return 

wolfish  light  within  their  glassy  pupils,  he  turned 
heavily,  and  climbed  back  to  his  solitude. 

'I  suppose/  began  Danton,  with  an  obvious  effort  to  dis- 
entangle himself  from  the  humiliation  of  the  moment, 
'I  suppose  he  was — wandering?' 

'Bless  me,  yes,'  said  Mr  Bethany  cordially — 'fever.  We 
all  know  what  that  means.' 

'Yes,'  said  Danton,  taking  refuge  in  Mrs  Lawford's 
white  and  intent  gaze. 

'Just  think,  think,  Danton — the  awful,  incessant  strain 
of  such  an  ordeal.  Think  for  an  instant  what  such  a  thing 
means !' 

Danton  inserted  a  plump,  white  finger  between  collar 
and  chin.  'Oh  yes.  But — eh? — needlessly  abusive?  I 
never  said  I  disbelieved  him.' 

'Do  you?'  said  Mrs  Lawford's  voice. 

He  poised  himself,  as  if  it  were,  on  the  monolithic  sta- 
bility of  his  legs.  'Eh?'  he  said. 

Mr  Bethany  sat  down  at  the  table.  'I  rather  feared 
some  such  temporary  breakdown  as  this,  Danton.  I  think 
I  foresaw  it.  And  now,  just  while  we  are  all  three  alone 
here  together  in  friendly  conclave,  wouldn't  it  be  as  well, 
don't  you  think,  to  confront  ourselves  with  the  difficulties  ? 
I  know — we  all  know,  that  that  poor  half-demented  crea- 
ture is  Arthur  Lawford.  This  morning  he  was  as  sane, 
as  lucid  as  I  hope  I  am  now.  An  awful  calamity  has 
suddenly  fallen  upon  him — this  change.  I  own  frankly 
at  the  first  sheer  shock  it  staggered  me  as  I  think  for  the 
moment  it  has  staggered  you.  But  when  I  had  seen  the 
poor  fellow  face  to  face,  heard  him  talk,  and  watched 
him  there  upstairs  in  the  silence  stir  and  awake  and  come 
up  again  to  his  trouble  out  of  his  sleep,  I  had  no  more 

107 


The  Return 

doubt  in  my  own  mind  and  heart  that  he  was  he  than  I 
have  in  my  mind  that  I — am  I.  We  do  in  some  myste- 
rious way,  you'll  own  at  once,  grow  so  accustomed,  so 
inured,  if  you  like,  to  each  other's  faces  (masks  though 
they  be)  that  we  hardly  realise  we  see  them  when  we  are 
speaking  together.  And  yet  the  slightest,  the  most  infin- 
itesimal change  is  instantly  apparent.' 

'Oh  yes,  Vicar;  but  you  see ' 

Mr  Bethany  raised  a  small  lean  hand :  'One  moment, 
please.  I  have  heard  Lawford's  own  account.  Con- 
scious or  unconscious,  he  has  been  through  some  terrific 
strain,  some  such  awful  conflict  with  the  unseen  powers 
that  we — thank  God! — have  only  read  about,  and  never 
perhaps,  until  death  is  upon  us,  shall  witness  for  ourselves. 
What  more  likely,  more  inevitable  than  that  such  a  thing 
should  leave  its  scar,  its  cloud,  its  masking  shadow? — call 
it  what  you  will.  A  smile  can  turn  a  face  we  dread  into  a 
face  we'd  die  for.  Some  experience,  which  would  be 
nothing  but  a  hideous  cruelty  and  outrage  to  ask  too 
closely  about — one,  perhaps,  which  he  could,  even  if  he 
would,  poor  fellow,  give  no  account  of — has  put  him 
temporarily  at  the  world's  mercy.  They  made  him  a  nine 
days'  wonder,  a  byword.  And  that,  my  dear  Danton,  is 
just  where  we  come  in.  We  know  the  man  himself;  and 
it  is  to  be  our  privilege  to  act  as  a  buffer-state,  to  be  inter- 
mediaries between  him  and  the  rest  of  this  deadly,  craving, 
sheepish  world — for  the  time  being;  oh  yes,  just  for  the 
time  being.  Other  and  keener  and  more  knowledgeable 
minds  than  mine  or  yours  will  some  day  bring  him  back  to 
us  again.  We  don't  attempt  to  explain;  we  can't.  We 
simply  believe.' 
108 


The  Return 

But  Danton  merely  continued  to  stare,  as  if  into  the 
quiet  of  an  aquarium. 

'My  dear  good  Danton,'  persisted  Mr  Bethany  with 
cherubic  patience,  'how  old  are  you?' 

'I  don't  see  quite  .  .  .'  smiled  Danton  with  recovered 
ease,  and  rapidly  mobilising  forces.  'Excuse  the  confi- 
dence, Mrs  Lawford,  I'm  forty-three.' 

'Good/  said  Mr  Bethany;  'and  I'm  seventy-one,  and 
this  child  here' — he  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  Sheila — 
'is  youth  perpetual.  So,'  he  briskly  brightened,  'say,  be- 
tween us  we're  six  score  all  told.  Are  we — can  we,  de- 
liberately, with  this  mere  pinch  of  years  at  our  command 
out  of  the  wheeling  millions  that  have  gone — can  we  say, 
"This  is  impossible,"  to  any  single  phenomenon?  Can 
we?' 

'No,  we  can't,  of  course,'  said  Danton  formidably.  'Not 
finally.  That's  all  very  well,  but' — he  paused,  and  nodded, 
nodding  his  round  head  upward  as  if  towards  the  in- 
audible overhead,  'I  suppose  he  can't  hear?' 

Mr  Bethany  rose  cheerfully.  'All  right,  Danton ;  I  am 
afraid  you  are  exactly  what  the  poor  fellow  in  his  delirium 
solemnly  asseverated.  And,  jesting  apart,  it  is  in  delirium 
that  we  tell  our  sheer,  plain,  unadulterated  truth:  you're 
a  nicely  covered  sceptic.  Personally,  I  refuse  to  discuss 
the  matter.  Mere  dull,  stubborn  prejudice;  bigotry,  if 
you  like.  I  will  only  remark  just  this — that  Mrs  Lawford 
and  I,  in  our  inmost  hearts,  know.  You,  my  dear  Danton, 
forgive  the  freedom,  merely  incredulously  grope.  Faith 
versus  Reason — that  prehistoric  Armageddon.  Some 
day,  and  a  day  not  far  distant  either,  Lawford  will  come 
back  to  us.  This — this  shutter  will  be  taken  down  as 

109 


The  Return 

abruptly  as  by  some  inconceivably  drowsy  heedlessness  of 
common  Nature  it  has  been  put  up.  He'll  win  through; 
and  of  his  own  sheer  will  and  courage.  But  now,  be- 
cause I  ask  it,  and  this  poor  child  here  entreats  it,  you 
will  say  nothing  to  a  living  soul  about  the  matter,  say, 
till  Friday?  What  step-by-step  creatures  we  are,  to  be 
sure!  I  say  Friday  because  it  will  be  exactly  a  week 
then.  And  what's  a  week? — to  Nature  scarcely  the  un- 
folding of  a  rose.  But  still,  Friday  be  it.  Then,  if  nothing 
has  occurred,  we  will,  we  shall  have  to  call  a  friendly 
gathering,  we  shall  be  compelled  to  have  a  friendly  con- 
sultation.' 

'I'm  not,  I  hope,  a  brute,  Bethany,'  said  Danton  apolo- 
getically ;  'but,  honestly,  speaking  for  myself,  simply  as  a 
man  of  the  world,  it's  a  big  risk  to  be  taking  on — what 
shall  we  call  it? — on  mere  intuition.  Personally,  and 
even  in  a  court  of  law — though  Heaven  forbid  it  ever 
reaches  that  stage — personally,  I  could  swear  that  the  fel- 
low that  stood  abusing  me  there,  in  that  revolting  fashion, 
was  not  Law  ford.  It  would  be  easier  even  to  believe  in 
him,  if  there  were  not  that — that  glaze,  that  shocking 
simulation  of  the  man  himself,  the  very  man.  But  then, 
I  am  a  sceptic ;  I  own  it.  And  'pon  my  word,  Mrs  Law- 
ford,  there's  plenty  of  room  for  sceptics  in  a  world  like 
this.' 

'Very  well,'  said  Mr  Bethany  crisply,  'that's  settled, 
then.  With  your  permission,  my  dear,'  he  added,  turn- 
ing untarnishably  clear  childlike  eyes  on  Sheila,  'I  will 
take  all  risks — even  to  the  foot  of  the  gibbet:  accessory, 
Danton,  after  the  fact.'  And  so  direct  and  cloudless  was 
his  gaze  that  Sheila  tried  in  vain  to  evade  it  and  to  catch 
no 


The  Return 

a  glimpse  of  Danton's  small  agate-like  eyes,  now  com- 
pletely under  mastery,  and  awaiting  confidently  the  meet- 
ing with  her  own. 

'Of  course,'  she  said,  'I  am  entirely  in  your  hands,  dear 
Mr  Bethany.' 


Ill 


Chapter  Eleven 


LAWFORD   slept   far   into  the  cloudy   Monday 
morning,  to  wake  steeped  in  sleep,  lethargic,  and 
fretfully  haunted  by  inconclusive  remembrances 
of   the  night  before.     When   Sheila,   with  obvious  and 
capacious  composure,  brought  him  his  breakfast  tray,  he 
watched  her  face  for  some  time  without  speaking. 

'Sheila,'  he  began,  as  she  was  about  to  leave  the  room 
again. 

She  paused,  smiling. 

'Did  anything  happen  last  night?    Would  you  mind 
telling  me,  Sheila  ?    Who  was  it  was  here  ?' 

Her  lids  the  least  bit  narrowed.     'Certainly,  Arthur; 
Mr  Danton  was  here.' 

'Then  it  was  not  a  dream  ?' 

'Oh  no,'  said  Sheila. 

'What  did  I  say  ?    What  did  he  say  ?     It  was  hopeless, 
anyhow.' 

'I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  mean  by  "hopeless," 
Arthur.     And  must  I  answer  the  other  questions?' 

Law  ford  drew  his  hand  over  his  face,  like  a  tired  child. 
'He  didn't— believe?' 

'No,  dear,'  said  Sheila  softly. 

'And  you,  Sheila?'  came  the  subdued  voice. 

Sheila   crossed   slowly   to   the  window.     'Well,   quite 
honestly,  Arthur,  I  was  not  very  much  surprised.     What- 

112 


The  Return 

ever  we  are  agreed  about  on  the  whole,  you  were  scarcely 
yourself  last  night.' 

Lawford  shut  his  eyes,  and  re-opened  them  full  on  his 
wife's  calm  scrutiny,  who  had  in  that  moment  turned  in 
the  light  of  the  one  drawn  blind  to  face  him  again. 

'Who  is?    Always?' 

'No,'  said  Sheila;  'but — it  was  at  least  unfortunate. 
We  can't,  I  suppose,  rely  on  Mr  Bethany  alone.' 

Lawford  crouched  over  his  food.     'Will  he  blab?' 

'Blab!     Mr  Danton  is  a  gentleman,  Arthur.' 

Lawford  rolled  his  eyes  as  if  in  temporary  vertigo. 
'Yes/  he  said.  And  Sheila  once  more  prepared  to  make 
a  reposeful  exit. 

'I  don't  think  I  can  see  Simon  this  morning.' 

'Oh.    Who,  then?' 

'I  mean  I  would  prefer  to  be  left  alone.' 

'Believe  me,  I  had  no  intention  to  intrude.'  And  this 
time  the  door  really  closed. 

'He  is  in  a  quiet,  soothing  sleep,'  said  Sheila  a  few  min- 
utes later. 

'Nothing  could  be  better,'  said  Dr  Simon;  and  Lawford, 
to  his  inexpressible  relief,  heard  the  fevered  throbbing  of 
the  doctor's  car  rearise,  and  turned  over  and  shut  his 
eyes,  dulled  and  exhausted  in  the  still  unfriendliness  of 
the  vacant  room.  His  spirits  had  sunk,  he  thought,  to 
their  lowest  ebb.  He  scarcely  heeded  the  fragments  of 
dreams — clear,  green  landscapes,  amazing  gleams  of  peace, 
the  sudden  broken  voices,  the  rustling  and  calling  shadowi- 
ness  of  subconsciousness — in  this  quiet  sunlight  of  reality. 
The  clouds  had  broken,  or  had  been  withdrawn  like  a  veil 
from  the  October  skies.  One  thought  alone  was  his  ref- 
uge; one  face  alone  haunted  him  with  its  peace;  one  re- 


The  Return 

membrance  soothed  him — Alice.  Through  all  his  scat- 
tered and  purposeless  arguments  he  strove  to  remember 
her  voice,  the  loving-kindness  of  her  eyes,  her  untroubled 
confidence. 

In  the  afternoon  he  got  up  and  dressed  himself.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  stand  before  the  glass  and  de- 
liberately shave.  He  even  smiled  at  the  thought  of  play- 
ing the  barber  to  that  lean  chin.  He  dressed  by  the  fire- 
Iplace. 

'I  couldn't  rest,'  he  told  Sheila,  when  she  presently 
came  in  on  one  of  her  quiet,  cautious,  heedful  visits; 
'and  one  tires  of  reading  even  Quain  in  bed.' 

'Have  you  found  anything?'  she  inquired  politely. 

'Oh  yes,'  said  Lawford  wearib-;  'I  have  discovered 
that  infinitely  worse  things  are  infinitely  commoner.  But 
that  there's  nothing  quite  so  picturesque.' 

'Tell  me/  said  Sheila,  with  refreshing  naivete.  'How 
does  it  feel  ?  does  it  even  in  the  slightest  degree  affect  your 
mind  ?' 

He  turned  his  back  and  looked  up  at  his  broad  gilt  por- 
trait for  inspiration.  'Practically,  not  at  all,'  he  said 
hollowly.  'Of  course,  one's  nerves — that  fellow  Danton 
• — when  one's  overtired.  You  have' — his  voice,  in  spite  of 
every  effort,  faintly  quavered — 'you  haven't  noticed  any- 
thing ?  My  mind  ?' 

'Me  ?  Oh  dear,  no !  I  never  was  the  least  bit  observ- 
ant; you  know  that,  Arthur.  But  apart  from  that,  and  I 
hope  you  will  not  think  me  unsympathetic — but  don't  you 
think  we  must  sooner  or  later  be  thinking  of  what's  to  be 
done  ?  At  present,  though  I  fully  agree  with  Mr  Bethany 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  hushing  this  unhappy  business  up  as 
long  as  possible,  at  least  from  the  gossiping  outside  world, 
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still  we  are  only  standing  still.  And  your  malady,  dear, 
I  suppose,  isn't.  You  will  help  me,  Arthur?  You  will 
try  and  think?  Poor  Alice!' 

'What  about  Alice  ?' 

'She  mopes,  dear,  rather.  She  cannot,  of  course,  quite 
understand  why  she  must  not  see  her  father,  and  yet  his 
not  being,  or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  even  if  he  was,  at 
death's  door.' 

'At  death's  door,'  murmured  Lawford  under  his 
breath;  'who  was  it  was  saying  that?  Have  you  ever, 
Sheila,  in  a  dream,  or  just  as  one's  thoughts  go  some- 
times, seen  that  door  ?  ...  its  ruinous  stone  lintel,  carved 
into  Hchenous  stone  heads  .  .  .  stonily  silent  in  the  last 
thin  sunlight,  hanging  in  peace  unlatched.  Heated, 
hunted,  in  agony — in  that  cold,  green-clad,  shadowed 
porch  is  haven  and  sanctuary.  .  .  .  But  beyond — O  God, 
beyond !' 

Sheila  stood  listening  with  startled  eyes.  'And  was  all 
that  in  Quain?'  she  inquired  rather  flutteringly. 

Lawford  turned  a  sidelong  head,  and  looked  steadily  at 
his  wife. 

She  shook  herself,  with  a  slight  shiver.  'Very  well, 
then,'  she  said  and  paused  in  the  silence. 

Her  husband  yawned,  and  smiled,  and  almost  as  if  lit 
with  that  thin  last  sunshine  seemed  the  smile  that  passed 
for  an  instant  across  the  reverie  of  his  shadowy  face.  He 
drew  a  hand  wearily  over  his  eyes.  'What  has  he  been 
saying  now?'  he  inquired  like  a  fretful  child. 

Sheila  stood  very  quiet  and  still,  as  if  in  fear  of  scaring 
some  rare,  wild,  timid  creature  by  the  least  stir.  'Who?' 
she  merely  breathed. 

Lawford  paused  on  the  hearth-rug  with  his  comb  in  his 


The  Return 

hand.  'It's  just  the  last  rags  of  that  beastly  influenza,'  he 
said,  and  began  vigorously  combing  his  hair.  And  yet, 
simple  and  frank  though  the  action  was,  it  moved  Sheila, 
perhaps,  more  than  any  other  of  the  congested  occurrences 
of  the  last  few  days.  Her  forehead  grew  suddenly  cold, 
the  palms  of  her  hands  began  to  ache,  she  had  to  hasten 
out  of  the  room  to  avoid  revealing  the  sheer  physical  re- 
pulsion she  had  experienced. 

But  Lawford,  quite  unmindful  of  the  shock,  continued 
in  a  kind  of  heedless  reverie  to  watch,  as  he  combed,  the 
still  visionary  thoughts  that  passed  in  tranced  stillness  be- 
fore his  eyes.  He  longed  beyond  measure  for  freedom 
that  until  yesterday  he  had  not  even  dreamed  existed  out- 
side the  covers  of  some  old  impossible  romance — the 
magic  of  the  darkening  sky,  the  invisible  flocking  pres- 
ences of  the  dead,  the  shock  of  imaginations  that  had  no 
words,  of  quixotic  emotions  which  the  stranger  had  stirred 
in  that  low,  mocking,  furtive  talk  beside  the  broken  stones 
of  the  Huguenot.  Was  the  'change'  quite  so  monstrous, 
so  meaningless  ?  How  often,  indeed,  he  remembered  curi- 
ously had  he  seemed  to  be  standing  outside  these  fast-shut 
gates  of  thought,  that  now  had  been  freely  opened  to  him. 

He  drew  ajar  the  door,  and  leant  his  ear  to  listen.  From 
far  away  came  a  rich,  long-continued  chuckle  of  laughter, 
followed  by  the  clatter  of  a  falling  plate,  and  then,  still 
more  uncontrollable  laughter.  There  was  a  faint  smell 
of  toast  on  the  air.  Lawford  ventured  out  on  to  the 
landing  and  into  a  little  room  that  had  once,  in  years  gone 
by,  been  Alice's  nursery.  He  stood  far  back  from  the 
strip  of  open  window  that  showed  beneath  the  green  blind, 
craning  forward  to  see  into  the  garden — the  trees,  their 
knotted  trunks,  and  then,  as  he  stole  nearer,  a  flower-bed, 
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The  Return 

late  roses,  geraniums,  calceolarias,  the  lawn  and — yes, 
three  wicker  chairs,  a  footstool,  a  work-basket,  a  little 
table  on  the  smooth  grass  in  the  honey-coloured  sun- 
shine ;  and  Sheila  sitting  there  in  the  autumnal  sunlight,  her 
hands  resting  on  the  arms  of  her  chair,  her  head  bent, 
evidently  deeply  engrossed  in  her  thoughts.  He  crept  an 
inch  or  two  forward,  and  stooped.  There  was  a  hat  on 
the  grass — Alice's  big  garden  hat — and  beside  it  lay 
Flitters,  nose  on  paws,  long  ears  sagging.  He  had  for- 
gotten Flitters.  Had  Flitters  forgotten  him?  Would  he 
bark  at  the  strange,  distasteful  scent  of  a — Dr  Ferguson? 
The  coast  was  clear,  then.  He  turned  even  softlier  yet, 
to  confront,  rapt,  still,  and  hovering  betwixt  astonishment 
and  dread,  the  blue  calm  eyes  of  his  daughter,  looking  in 
at  the  door.  It  seemed  to  Lawford  as  if  they  had  both 
been  suddenly  swept  by  some  unseen  power  into  a  still, 
unearthly  silence. 

'We  thought,'  he  began  at  last,  'we  thought  just  to 
beckon  Mrs  Lawford  from  the  window.  He — he  is 
asleep.' 

Alice  nodded.  Her  whole  face  was  in  a  moment  flooded 
with  red.  It  ebbed  and  left  her  pale.  'I  will  go  down 
and  tell  mother  you  want  to  see  her.  It  was  very  silly  of 
me.  I  did  not  quite  recognise  at  first  ...  I  suppose, 

thinking  of  my  father '  The  words  faltered,  and  the 

eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face  again  with  a  desolate,  incredu- 
lous appeal.  Lawford  turned  away  heartsick  and  trem- 
bling. 

'Certainly,  certainly,  by  no  means,'  he  began,  listening 
vaguely  to  the  glib  patter  that  seemed  to  come  from  an- 
other mouth.  'Your  father,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  ven- 
ture to  think  is  now  really  on  the  road  to  recovery.  Dr 

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The  Return 

Simon  makes  excellent  progress.  But,  of  course — two 
heads,  we  know,  are  so  much  better  than  one  when  there's 
the  least — the  least  difficulty.  The  great  thing  is  quiet, 

rest,  isolation,  no  possibility  of  a  shock,  else '  His 

voice  fell  away,  his  eloquence  failed. 

For  Alice  stood  gazing  stirlessly  on  and  on  into  this 
infinitely  strange,  infinitely  familiar  shadowy,  phantasmal 
face.  'Oh  yes,'  she  replied,  'I  quite  understand,  of  course ; 
but  if  I  might  just  peep  even,  it  would — I  should  be  so 
much,  much  happier.  Do  let  me  just  see  him,  Dr  Ferg- 
uson, if  only  his  head  on  the  pillow!  I  wouldn't  even 
breathe.  Couldn't  it  possibly  help — even  a  faith-cure?' 
She  leant  forward  impulsively,  her  voice  trembling,  and 
her  eyes  still  shining  beneath  their  faint,  melancholy 
smile. 

'I  fear,  my  dear  ...  it  cannot  be.  He  longs  to  see 
you.  But  with  his  mind,  you  know,  in  this  state,  it 
might ?' 

'But  mother  never  told  me,'  broke  in  the  girl  desperate- 
ly, 'there  was  anything  wrong  with  his  mind.  Oh,  but 
that  was  quite  unfair.  You  don't  mean,  you  don't  mean — 
that ?' 

Law  ford  scanned  swiftly  the  little  square  beloved  and 
memoried  room  that  fate  had  suddenly  converted  for  him 
into  a  cage  of  unspeakable  pain  and  longing.  'Oh  no ;  be- 
lieve me,  no !  Not  his  brain,  not  that,  not  even  wander- 
ing ;  really :  but  always  thinking,  always  longing  on  and  on 
for  you,  dear,  only.  Quite,  quite  master  of  himself, 
but ' 

'You  talk,'  she  broke  in  again  angrily,  'only  in  pre- 
tence! You  are  treating  me  like  a  child;  and  so  does 
mother,  and  so  it  has  been  ever  since  I  came  home.  Why, 
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The  Return 

if  mother  can,  and  you  can,  why  may  not  I  ?  Why,  if  he 
can  walk  and  talk  in  the  night  .  .  .' 

'But  who — who  "can  walk  and  talk  in  the  night?"' 
inquired  a  low  stealthy  voice  out  of  the  quietness  behind 
her. 

Alice  turned  swiftly.  Her  mother  was  standing  at  a 
little  distance,  with  all  the  calm  and  moveless  concentra- 
tion of  a  waxwork  figure,  looking  up  at  her  from  the 
staircase. 

'I  was — I  was  talking  to  Dr  Ferguson,  mother.' 

'But  as  I  came  up  the  stairs  I  understood  you  to  be  in- 
quiring something  of  Dr  Ferguson,  "if,"  you  were  say- 
ing, "he  can  walk  and  talk  in  the  night" :  you  surely  were 
not  referring  to  your  father,  child  ?  That  could  not  possi- 
bly be,  in  his  state.  Dr  Ferguson,  I  know,  will  bear  me 
out  in  that  at  least.  And  besides,  I  really  must  insist  on 
following  out  medical  directions  to  the  letter.  Dr 
Ferguson  I  know,  will  fully  concur.  Do,  pray,  Dr 
Ferguson,'  continued  Sheila,  raising  her  voice  even  now 
scarcely  above  a  rapid  murmer — 'do  pray  assure  my 
daughter  that  she  must  have  patience ;  that  however  much 
even  he  himself  may  desire  it,  it  is  impossible  that  she 
should  see  her  father  yet.  And  now,  my  dear  child,  come 
down,  I  want  to  have  a  moment's  talk  with  Dr  Ferguson. 
I  feared  from  his  beckoning  at  the  window  that  something 
was  amiss.' 

Alice  turned,  dismayed,  and  looked  steadily,  almost  with 
hostility,  at  the  stranger,  so  curiously  transfixed  and  iso- 
lated in  her  small  old  play-room.  And  in  this  scornful  yet 
pleading  confrontation  her  eye  fell  suddenly  on  the  pin  in 
his  scarf — the  claw  and  the  pearl  she  had  known  all  her 
life.  From  that  her  gaze  flitted,  like  some  wild  demented 

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The  Return 

thing's,  over  face,  hair,  hands,  clothes,  attitude,  expression, 
and  her  heart  stood  still  in  an  awful,  inarticulate  dread  of 
the  unknown.  She  turned  slowly  towards  her  mother, 
groped  forward  a  few  steps,  turned  once  more,  stretching 
out  her  hands  towards  the  vague  still  figure  whose  eyes 
had  called  so  piteously  to  her  out  of  their  depths,  and  fell 
fainting  in  the  doorway.  Law  ford  stood  motionless, 
vacantly  watching  Sheila,  who  knelt,  chafing  the  cold 
hands.  'She  has  fainted?'  he  said;'  oh,  Sheila,  tell  me — 
only  fainted?' 

Sheila  made  no  answer ;  did  not  even  raise  her  eyes. 

'Some  day,  Sheila — • — '  he  began  in  a  dull  voice,  and 
broke  off,  and  without  another  word,  without  even  an- 
other glance  at  the  still  face  and  blue,  twitching  lids,  he 
passed  her  rapidly  by,  and  in  another  instant  Sheila  heard 
the  house-door  shut.  She  got  up  quickly,  and  after  a 
glance  into  the  vacant  bedroom  turned  the  key ;  then  she 
hastened  upstairs  for  sal  volatile  and  eau  de  cologne.  .  .  . 

It  was  yet  clear  daylight  when  Lawford  appeared  be- 
neath the  portico  of  his  house.  With  a  glance  of  cir- 
cumspection that  almost  seemed  to  suggest  a  fear  of  pur- 
suit, he  descended  the  steps,  only  to  be  made  aware  in  so 
doing  that  Ada  was  with  a  kind  of  furtive  eagerness 
pointing  out  the  mysterious  Dr  Ferguson  to  a  steadily 
gazing  cook.  One  or  two  well-known  and  many  a  well- 
remembered  face  he  encountered  in  the  thin  stream  of 
City  men  treading  blackly  along  the  pavement.  It  was  a 
still,  high  evening,  and  something  very  like  a  forlorn  com- 
passion rose  in  his  mind  at  sight  of  their  grave,  rather 
pretentious,  rather  dull,  respectable  faces. 

He  found  himself  walking  with  an  affectation  of  ef- 
frontery, and  smiling  with  a  faint  contempt  on  all  alike, 
1 20 


The  Return 

as  if  to  keep  himself  from  slinking,  and  the  wolf  out  of 
his  eyes.  He  felt  restless,  and  watchful,  and  suspicious, 
as  if  he  had  suddenly  come  down  in  the  world.  His, 
then,  was  a  disguise  as  effectual  as  a  shabby  coat  and  a 
glazing  eye.  His  heart  sickened.  Was  it  even  worth 
while  living  on  a  crust  of  social  respectability  so  thin  and 
so  exquisitely  treacherous  ?  He  challenged  no  one.  One 
or  two  actual  acquaintances  raised  and  lowered  a  faintly 
inquiring  eyebrow  in  his  direction.  One  even  recalled  in 
his  confusion  a  smile  of  recognition  just  a  moment  too 
late.  There  was,  it  seemed,  a  peculiar  aura  in  Lawford's, 
presence,  a  shadow  of  a  something  in  his  demeanour  that 
proved  him  alien. 

None  the  less  green  Widderstone  kept  calling  him, 
much  as  a  bell  in  the  imagination  tolls  on  and  on,  the  echo 
of  reality.  If  the  worst  should  come  to  the  worst,  why — 
there  is  pasture  in  the  solitary  by-ways  for  the  beast  that 
strays.  He  quickened  his  pace  along  lonelier  streets,  and 
soon  strode  freely  through  the  little  flagged  and  cobbled 
village  of  shops,  past  the  same  small  jutting  window 
whose  clock  had  told  him  the  hour  on  that  first  dark 
hurried  night.  All  was  pale  and  faint  with  dying  colours 
now ;  and  decay  was  in  the  leaf,  and  the  last  swallows 
filled  the  gold  air  with  their  clashing  stillness.  No  one 
heeded  him  here.  He  looked  from  side  to  side,  exulting 
in  the  strangeness.  Shops  were  left  behind,  the  last 
milestone  passed,  and  in  a  little  while  he  was  descending 
the  hill  beneath  the  elm  boughs,  which  he  remembered 
had  stood  like  a  turreted  wall  against  the  sunset  when  first 
he  had  wandered  down  into  the  churchyard. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  he  passed  by  the  green  and  white 
Rectory,  and  there  was  the  parson,  a  short  fat,  pursy  man 

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The  Return 

with  wrists  protruding  from  his  jacket  sleeves  as  he  stood 
on  tip-toe  tying  up  a  rambling  roseshoot  on  his  trim 
cedared  lawn.  The  next  house  barely  showed  its  old  red 
chimney-tops,  above  its  bowers ;  the  next  was  empty,  with 
windows  vacantly  gazing,  its  paths  peopled  with  great 
bearded  weeds  that  stood  mutely  watching  and  guarding 
the  seldom-opened  gate.  Then  came  more  lofty  grand- 
motherly elms,  a  dense  hedge  of  every  leaf  that  pricks,  and 
then  Lawford  found  himself  standing  at  the  small  cano- 
pied gate  of  the  queer  old  wooden  house  that  the  stranger 
of  his  talk  had  in  part  described. 

It  stood  square  and  high  and  dark  in  a  small  amphi- 
theatre of  verdure.  Roses  here  and  there  sprang  from 
the  grass,  and  a  narrow  box-edged  path  led  to  a  small 
door  in  a  low  green-mantled  wing,  with  its  one  square 
window  above  the  porch.  And  while,  with  vacant  mind, 
Lawford  stood  waiting,  as  one  stands  forebodingly  upon 
the  eve  of  a  new  experience  he  heard  as  if  at  a  distance 
the  sound  of  falling  water.  He  still  paused  on  the  country 
roadside,  scrutinising  this  strange,  still,  wooden  presence; 
but  at  last  with  an  effort  he  pushed  open  the  gate,  followed 
the  winding  path,  and  pulled  the  old  iron  hanging  bell. 
There  came  presently  a  quiet  tread,  and  Herbert  himself 
opened  the  door  which  led  into  a  little  square  wood- 
panelled  hall,  hung  with  queer  old  prints  and  obscure  por- 
traits in  dark  frames. 

'Ah,  yes,  come  in,  Mr  Lawford,'  he  drawled;  'I  was 
beginning  to  be  afraid  you  were  not  coming.' 

Lawford  laid  hat  and  walking-stick  on  an  oak  bench, 
and  followed  his  churchyard  companion  up  a  slightly  in- 
clined corridor  and  a  staircase  into  a  high  room,  covered 
far  up  the  yellowish  walls  with  old  books  on  shelves  and 

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The  Return 

in  cases,  between  which  hung  in  little  black  frames,  mez- 
zo tints,  etchings,  and  antiquated  maps.  A  large  table 
stood  a  few  paces  from  the  deep  alcove  of  the  window, 
which  was  surrounded  by  a  low,  faded,  green  seat,  and 
was  screened  from  the  sunshine  by  wooden  shutters. 
And  here  the  tranquil  surge  of  falling  water  shook  in- 
cessantly on  the  air,  for  the  three  lower  casements  stood 
open  to  the  fading  sunset.  On  a  smaller  table  were  spread 
cups,  old  earthenware  dishes  of  fruit,  and  a  big  bowl  of 
damask  roses. 

Tlease  sit  down ;  I  sha'n't  be  a  moment ;  I  am  not  sure 
that  my  sister  is  in ;  but  if  so,  I  will  tell  her  we  are  ready 
for  tea.'  Let  to  himself  in  this  quiet,  strange  old  room, 
Law  ford  forgot  for  a  while  everything  else,  he  was  for 
the  moment  so  taken  up  with  his  surroundings. 

What  seized  on  his  fancy  and  strangely  affected  his 
mind  was  this  incessant  changing  roar  of  falling  water. 
It  must  be  the  Widder,  he  said  to  himself,  flowing  close 
to  the  walls.  But  not  until  he  had  had  the  boldness  to 
lean  head  and  shoulders  out  of  the  nearest  window  did 
he  fully  realize  how  close  indeed  the  Widder  was.  It 
came  sweeping  dark  and  deep  and  begreened  and  full 
with  the  early  autumnal  rains,  actually  against  the  lower 
walls  of  the  house  itself,  and  in  the  middle  suddenly 
swerved  in  a  black,  smooth  arch,  and  tumbled  headlong 
into  a  great  pool,  nodding  with  tall  slender  water-weeds, 
and  charged  in  its  bubbled  blackness  here  and  there  with 
the  last  crimson  of  the  setting  sun.  To  the  left  of  the 
house,  where  the  waters  floated  free  again,  stood  vast, 
still  trees  above  the  clustering  rushes ;  and  in  glimpses  be- 
tween their  spreading  boughs  lay  the  far-stretching 
countryside,  now  dimmed  with  the  first  mists  of  approach- 

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The  Return 

ing  evening-.  So  absorbed  he  became  as  he  stood  leaning 
over  the  wooden  sill  above  the  falling  water,  that  eye  and 
ear  became  enslaved  by  the  roar  and  stillness.  And  in 
the  faint  atmosphere  of  age  that  seemed  like  a  veil  to 
hang  about  the  odd  old  house  and  these  prodigious 
branches,  he  fell  into  a  kind  of  waking  dream. 

When  at  last  he  did  draw  back  into  the  room  it  was 
perceptibly  darker,  and  a  thin  keen  shaft  of  recollection 
struck  across  his  mind — the  recollection  of  what  he  was, 
and  of  how  he  came  to  be  there,  his  reasons  for  coming 
and  of  that  dark  indefinable  presence  which  like  a  raven 
had  begun  to  build  its  dwelling  in  his  mind.  He  sat  on, 
his  eyes  restlessly  wandering,  his  face  leaning  on  his 
hands;  and  in  a  while  the  door  opened  and  Herbert  re- 
turned, carrying  an  old  crimson  and  green  teapot  and  a 
dish  of  hot  cakes. 

'They're  all  out,'  he  said;  'sister,  Sallie,  and  boy;  but 
these  were  in  the  oven,  so  we  won't  wait.  I  hope  you 
haven't  been  very  much  bored.' 

Lawford  dropped  his  hands  from  his  face  and  smiled. 
'I  have  been  looking  at  the  water,'  he  said. 

'My  sister's  favorite  occupation ;  she  sits  for  hours  and 
hours,  with  not  even  a  book  for  an  apology,  staring  down 
into  the  black  old  roaring  pot.  It  has  a  sort  of  hypnotic 
effect  after  a  time.  And  you'd  be  surprised  how  quickly 
one  gets  used  to  the  noise.  To  me  it's  even  less  distract- 
ing than  sheer  silence.  You  don't  know,  after  all,  what 
on  earth  sheer  silence  means — even  at  Widderstone.  But 
one  can  just  realize  a  water-nymph.  They  chatter;  but, 
thank  Heaven,  it's  not  articulate.'  He  handed  Lawford  a 
cup  with  a  certain  niceness  and  self-consciousness,  lifting 
his  eyebrows  slightly  as  he  turned. 

Lawford  found  himself  listening  out  of  a  peculiar  still- 
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The  Return 

ness  of  mind  to  the  voice  of  this  suave  and  rather  in- 
scrutable acquaintance.  'The  curious  thing  is,  do  you 
know,'  he  began  rather  nervously,'  that  though  I  must 
have  passed  your  gate  at  least  twice  in  the  last  few  months, 
I  have  never  noticed  it  before,  never  even  caught  the 
sound  of  the  water.' 

'No,  that's  the  best  of  it;  nobody  ever  does.  We  are 
just  buried  alive.  We  have  lived  here  for  years,  and 
scarcely  know  a  soul — not  even  our  own,  perhaps.  Why 
on  earth  should  one?  Acquaintances,  after  all,  are  little 
else  than  a  bad  habit/ 

'But  then,  what  about  me?'  said  Lawford. 

'But  that's  just  it,'  said  Herbert.  'I  said  acquaintances; 
that's  just  exactly  what  I'm  going  to  prove — what  very 
old  friends  we  are.  You've  no  idea!  It  really  is  rather 
queer.'  He  took  up  his  cup  and  sauntered  over  to  the 
window. 

Lawford  eyed  him  vacantly  for  a  moment,  and,  follow- 
ing rather  his  own  curious  thoughts  than  seeking  any  light 
on  this  somewhat  vague  explanation,  again  broke  the 
silence.  'It's  odd,  I  suppose,  but  this  house  affects  me 
much  in  the  same  way  as  Widderstone  does.  I'm  not  par- 
ticularly fanciful — at  least,  I  used  not  to  be.  But  sitting 
here  I  seem,  I  hope  it  isn't  a  very  frantic  remark,  it  seems 
as  though,  if  only  my  ears  would  let  me,  I  should  hear — 
well,  voices.  It's  just  what  you  said  about  the  silence.  I 
suppose  it's  the  age  of  the  place;  it  is  very  old?' 

'Pretty  old,  I  suppose;  it's  worm-eaten  and  rat-eaten 
and  tindery  enough  in  all  conscience;  and  the  damp 
doesn't  exactly  foster  it.  It's  a  queer  old  shanty.  There 
are  two  or  three  accounts  of  it  in  some  old  local  stuff  I 
have.  And  of  course  there's  a  ghost.' 

'A  ghost?'  echoed  Lawford,  looking  up. 

125 


Chapter  Twelve 


IT  IT  THAT'S  in  a  name?'  laughed  Herbert.  'But 
%/%/  it  really  is  a  queer  show-up  of  human  oddity. 
T  V  A  fellow  comes  in  here,  searching;  that's  all.' 
His  back  was  turned,  as  he  stood  staring  absently  out, 
sipping  his  tea  between  his  sentences.  'He  comes  in — oh, 
it's  a  positive  fact,  for  I've  seen  him  myself,  just  sit- 
ting back  in  my  chair  here,  you  know,  watching  him  as 
one  would  a  tramp  in  one's  orchard.'  He  cast  a  candid 
glance  over  his  shoulder.  'First  he  looks  round,  like  a 
prying  servant.  Then  he  comes  cautiously  on — a  kind 
of  grizzled,  fawn-coloured  face,  middle-size,  with  big 
hands ;  and  then  just  like  some  quiet,  groping,  nocturnal 
creature,  he  begins  his  precious  search — shelves,  drawers 
that  are  not  here,  cupboards  gone  years  ago,  questing 
and  nosing  no  end,  and  quite  methodically  too,  until 
he  reaches  the  window.  Then  he  stops,  looks  back, 
narrows  his  foxy  lids,  listens — quite  perceptibly,  you 
know,  a  kind  of  gingerish  blur;  then  he  seems  to 
open  this  corner  bookcase  here,  as  if  it  were  a  door 
and  goes  out  along  what  I  suppose  must  at  some  time 
have  been  an  outside  gallery  or  balcony,  unless,  as  I 
rather  fancy,  the  house  extended  once  beyond  these  win- 
dows. Anyhow,  out  he  goes  quite  deliberately,  treading 
the  air  as  lightly  as  Botticelli's  angels,  until,  however  far 
you  lean  out  of  the  window,  you  can't  follow  him  any  fur- 
ther. And  then — and  this  is  the  bit  that  takes  one's 
fancy — when  you  have  contentedly  noddled  down  again 
to  whatever  you  may  have  been  doing  when  the  wretch 
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appeared,  or  are  sitting  in  a  cold  sweat,  with  bolting  eyes 
awaiting  developments,  just  according  to  your  school  of 
thought,  or  of  nerves,  the  creature  comes  back — comes 
back;  and  with  what  looks  uncommonly  like  a  lighted 
candle  in  his  hand.  That  really  is  a  thrill,  I  assure  you.' 

'But  you've,  seen  this — you've  really  seen  this  yourself  ?' 

'Oh  yes,  twice,'  replied  Herbert  cheerfully.  'And  my 
sister,  quite  by  haphazard,  once  saw  him  from  the  garden. 
She  was  shelling  peas  one  evening  for  Sallie,  and  she  dis- 
tinctly saw  him  shamble  out  of  the  window  here,  and  go 
shuffling  along,  mid-air,  across  the  roaring  washpot  down 
below,  turn  sharp  round  the  high  corner  of  the  house, 
sheer  against  the  stars,  in  a  kind  of  frightened  hurry. 
And  then,  after  five  minutes'  concentrated  watching  over 
the  shucks,  she  saw  him  come  shuffling  back  again — the 
same  distraction,  the  same  nebulous  snuff  colour,  and  a 
candle  trailing  its  smoke  behind  him  as  he  whisked  in 
home.' 

'And  then?' 

'Ah,  then,'  said  Herbert,  lagging  along  the  bookshelves, 
and  scanning  the  book-backs  with  eyes  partially  closed :  he 
turned  with  lifted  teapot,  and  refilled  his  visitor's  cup; 
'then,  wherever  you  are — I  mean/  he  added,  cutting  up  a 
little  cake  into  six  neat  slices,  'wherever  the  chance  inmate 
of  the  room  happens  to  be,  he  comes  straight  for  you, 
at  a  quite  alarming  velocity,  and  fades,  vanishes,  melts, 
or,  as  it  were,  silts  inside.' 

Law  ford  listened  in  a  curious  hush  that  had  suddenly 
fallen  over  his  mind.  '  "Fades  inside  ?  silts  ?" — I'm 
awfully  stupid,  but  what  on  earth  do  you  mean?'  The 
room  had  slowly  emptied  itself  of  daylight ;  its  own  dark- 
ness, it  seemed,  had  met  that  of  the  narrowing  night,  and 

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The  Return 

Herbert  deliberately  lit  a  cigarette  before  replying.  His 
clear  pale  face,  with  its  smooth  outline  and  thin  mouth 
and  rather  long  dark  eyes,  turned  with  a  kind  of  serene 
good-humour  towards  his  questioner. 

'Why/  he  said,  'I  mean  frankly  just  that.  Besides,  it's 
Grisel's  own  phrase;  and  an  old  nurse  we  used  to  have 
said  much  the  same.  He  comes,  or  it  comes  towards  you, 
first  just  walking,  then  with  a  kind  of  gradually  ac- 
celerated slide  or  glide,  and  sweeps  straight  into  you,'  he 
tapped  his  chest,  'me,  whoever  it  may  be  is  here.  In  a 
kind  of  panic,  I  suppose,  to  hide,  or  perhaps  simply  to 
get  back  again/ 

'Get  back  where?' 

'Be  resumed,  as  it  were,  via  you.  You  see,  I  suppose 
he  is  compelled  to  regain  his  circle,  or  Purgatory,  or 
Styx,  whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  via  consciousness.  No 
one  present,  then  no  revenant  or  spook,  or  astral  body,  or 
hallucination:  what's  in  a  name?  And  of  course  even  an 
hallucination  is  mind-stuff,  and  on  its  own,  as  it  were. 
What  I  mean  is  that  the  poor  devil  must  have  some  kind 
of  human  personality  to  get  back  through  in  order  to 
make  his  exit  from  our  sphere  of  consciousness  into  his. 
And  naturally,  of  course  to  make  his  entrance  too.  If 
like  a  tenuous  smoke  he  can  get  in,  the  probability  is 
that  he  gets  out  in  precisely  the  same  fashion.  For 
really,  if  you  weren't  consciously  expecting  the  customary 
impact  (you  actually  jerk  forward  in  the  act  of  resistance 
unresisted),  you  would  not  notice  his  going.  I  am  afraid 
I  must  be  horribly  boring  you  with  all  these  tangled 
theories.  All  I  mean  is,  that  if  you  were  really  absorbed 
in  what  you  happened  to  be  doing  at  the  time,  the  thing 
might  come  and  go,  with  your  mind  for  entrance  and  exit, 
128 


The  Return 

as  it  were,  without  your  being  conscious  of  it  at  all.' 
There  was  a  longish  pause,  in  which  Herbert  slowly  in- 
haled and  softly  breathed  out  his  smoke. 

'And  what — what  is  the  poor  wretch  searching  for? 
And  what — why,  what  becomes  of  him  when  he  does  go?' 

'Ah,  there  you  have  me!  One  merely  surmises  just 
as  one's  temperament  or  convictions  lean.  Grisel  says 
it's  some  poor  derelict  soul  in  search  of  peace — that  the 
poor  beggar  wants  finally  to  die,  in  fact,  and  can't.  Sallie 
smells  crime.  After  all,  what  is  every  man?'  he  talked 
on;  'a  horde  of  ghosts — like  a  Chinese  nest  of  boxes — 
oaks  that  were  acorns  that  were  oaks.  Death  lies  behind 
us,  not  in  front — in  our  ancestors,  back  and  back, 
until ' 

*  "Until  ?"  '  Law  ford  managed  to  remark. 

'Ah,  that  settles  me  again.  Don't  they  call  it  an  amoeba  ? 
But  really  I  am  abjectly  ignorant  of  all  that  kind  of 
stuff.  We  are  all  we  are,  and  all  in  a  sense  we  care  to 
dream  we  are.  And  for  that  matter,  anything  outlandish, 
bizarre,  is  a  godsend  in  this  rather  stodgy  life.  It  is  after 
all  just  what  the  old  boy  said — it's  only  the  impossible 
that's  credible ;  whatever  credible  may  mean.  .  .  .' 

It  seemed  to  Lawford  as  if  the  last  remark  had  wafted 
him  bodily  into  the  presence  of  his  kind,  blinking,  in- 
tensely anxious  old  friend,  Mr  Bethany.  And  what 
leagues  asunder  the  two  men  were  who  had  happened  on 
much  the  same  words  to  express  their  convictions. 

He  drew  his  hand  gropingly  over  his  face,  half  rose, 
and  again  seated  himself.  'Whatever  it  may  be,'  he  said, 
'the  whole  thing  reminds  me,  you  know — it  is  in  a  way  so 
curiously  like  my  own — my  own  case.' 

Herbert  sat  on,  a  little  drawn  up  in  his  chair,  quietly 

129 


The  Return 

smoking.  The  crash  of  the  falling  water,  after  seeming 
to  increase  in  volume  with  the  fading  of  evening,  had 
again  died  down  in  the  darkness  to  a  low  multitudinous 
tumult  as  of  countless  inarticulate,  echoing  voices. 

'  "Bizarre,"  you  said ;  God  knows  /  am.'  But  Herbert 
still  remained  obdurately  silent.  'You  remember,  per- 
haps,' Lawford  faintly  began  again,  'our  talk  the  other 
night?' 

'Oh,  rather,'  replied  the  cordial  voice  out  of  the  dusk. 

'I  suppose  you  thought  I  was  insane?' 

'Insane !'  There  was  a  genuinely  amused  astonishment 
in  the  echo.  'You  were  lucidity  itself.  Besides — well, 
honestly,  if  I  may  venture,  I  don't  put  very  much  truck  in 
what  one  calls  one's  sanity :  except,  of  course,  as  a  bond 
of  respectability  and  a  means  of  livelihood.' 

'But  did  you  realise  in  the  least  from  what  I  said  how 
I  really  stand  ?  That  I  went  down  into  that  old  shadowy 
hollow  one  man,  and  came  back — well — this?' 

'I  gathered  vaguely  something  like  that.  I  thought  at 
first  it  was  merely  an  affectation — that  what  you  said  was 
an  affectation,  I  mean — until — well,  to  be  irank,  it  was  the 
"this"  that  so  immensely  interested  me.  Especially/  he 
added  almost  with  a  touch  of  gaiety,  'especially  the  last 
glimpse.  But  if  it's  really  not  a  forbidden  question,  what 
precisely  was  the  other?  What  precise  manner  of  man, 
I  mean,  came  down  into  Widderstone  ?' 

'It  is  my  face  that  is  changed,  Mr  Herbert.  If  you'll 
try  to  understand  me — my  face.  What  you  see  now  is 
not  what  I  really  am,  not  what  I  was.  Oh,  it  is  all  quite 
different.  I  know  perfectly  well  how  absurd  it  must 
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sound.  And  you  won't  press  me  further.  But  that's  the 
truth :  that's  what  they  have  done  for  me.' 

It  seemed  to  Lawford  as  if  a  remote  tiny  shout  of 
laughter  had  been  suddenly  caught  back  in  the  silence 
that  had  followed  this  confession.  He  peered  in  vain  in 
the  direction  of  his  companion.  Even  his  cigarette  re- 
vealed no  sign  of  him.  'I  know,  I  know,'  he  went 
gropingly  on;  'I  felt  it  would  sound  to  you  like  nothing 
but  frantic  incredible  nonsense.  You  can't  see  it.  You 
can't  feel  it.  You  can't  hear  these  hooting  voices.  It's 
no  use  at  all  blinking  the  fact ;  I  am  simply  on  the  verge, 
if  not  over  it,  of  insanity.' 

'As  to  that,  Mr  Lawford,'  came  the  still  voice  out  of 
the  darkness;  'the  very  fact  of  your  being  able  to  say  so 
seems  to  me  all  but  proof  positive  that  you're  not.  In- 
sanity is  on  another  plane,  isn't  it?  in  which  one  can't 
compare  one's  states.  As  for  what  you  say  being  credible, 
take  our  precious  noodle  of  a  spook  here!  Ninety-nine 
hundredths  of  this  amiable  world  of  ours  would  have 
guffawed  the  poor  creature  into  imperceptibility  ages  ago. 
To  such  poor  credulous  creatures  as  my  sister  and  I  he 
is  no  more  and  no  less  a  fact,  a  personality,  an  amusing 
reality  than — well,  this  teacup.  Here  we  are,  amazing 
mysteries  both  of  us  in  any  case;  and  all  round  us  are 
scores  of  books,  dealing  just  with  life,  pure,  candid,  and 
unexpurgated ;  and  there's  not  a  single  one  among  them 
but  reads  like  a  taradiddle.  Yet  grope  between  the  lines 
of  any  autobiography,  it's  pretty  clear  what  one  has  got — 
a  feeble,  timid,  creeping  attempt  to  describe  the  indescrib- 
able. As  for  what  you  say  your  case  is,  the  bizarre — 
that  kind  very  seldom  gets  into  print  at  all.  In  all  our 


The  Return 

make-believe,  all  our  pretence,  how,  honestly,  could  it? 
But  there,  this  is  immaterial.  The  real  question  is,  may 
I,  can  I  help?  What  I  gather  is  this:  You  just  trundled 
down  into  Widderstone  all  among  the  dead  men,  and — 
but  one  moment,  I'll  light  up.' 

A  light  flickered  up  in  the  dark.  Shading  it  in  his  hand 
from  the  night  air  straying  through  the  open  window, 
Herbert  lit  the  two  candles  that  stood  upon  the  little  chim- 
neypiece  behind  Lawford's  head.  Then  sauntering  over 
to  the  window  again,  almost  as  if  with  an  affectation  of 
nonchalance,  he  drew  one  of  the  shutters,  and  sat  down. 
'Nothing  much  struck  me/  he  went  on,  leaning  back  on 
his  hands,  'I  mean  on  Sunday  evening,  until  you  said 
good-bye.  It  was  then  that  I  caught  in  the  moon  a  dis- 
tinct glimpse  of  your  face.' 

'This,'  said  Lawford,  with  a  sudden  horrible  sinking  of 
the  heart. 

Herbert  nodded.  'The  fact  is,  I  have  a  print  of  it,' 
he  said. 

'A  print  of  it?' 

'A  miserable  little  dingy  engraving.' 

'Of  this  ?'  Herbert  nodded,  with  eyes  fixed.    'Where  ?' 

'That's  the  nuisance.  I  searched  high  and  low  for  it 
the  instant  I  got  home.  For  the  moment  it  has  been  mis- 
laid; but  it  must  be  somewhere  in  the  house  and  it  will 
turn  up  all  in  good  time.  It's  the  frontispiece  of  one  of 
a  queer  old  hotchpotch  of  pamphlets,  sewn  up  together 
by  some  amateur  enthusiast  in  a  marbled  paper  cover — 
confessions,  travels,  trials  and  so  on.  All  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, and  all  in  French.' 

'And  mine?'  said  Lawford,  gazing  stonily  across  the 
candlelight. 
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The  Return 

Herbert,  from  a  head  slightly  stooping,  gazed  back  in 
an  almost  birdlike  fashion  across  the  room  at  his  visitor. 

'Sabathier's,'  he  said. 

'Sabathier's !' 

'A  really  curious  resemblance.  Of  course,  I  am  speak- 
ing only  from  memory ;  and  perhaps  it's  not  quite  so  vivid 
in  this  light;  but  still  astonishingly  clear.' 

Law  ford  sat  drawn  up,  staring  at  his  companion's  face 
in  an  intense  and  helpless  silence.  His  mouth  opened 
but  no  words  came. 

'Of  course,'  began  Herbert  again,  'I  don't  say  there's 
anything  in  it — except  the — the  mere  coincidence,'  he 
paused  and  glanced  out  of  the  open  casement  beside  him. 
'But  there's  just  one  obvious  question.  Do  you  happen 
to  know  of  any  strain  of  French  blood  in  your  family?' 

Lawford  shut  his  eyes,  even  memory  seemed  to  be  for- 
saking him  at  last.  'No,'  he  said,  after  a  long  pause, 
'there's  a  little  Dutch,  I  think,  on  my  mother's  side,  but 
no  French.' 

'No  Sabathier,  then  ?'  said  Herbert,  smiling.  'And  then 
there's  another  question — this  change ;  is  it  really  as  com- 
plete as  you  suppose?  Has  it — please  just  warn  me  off 
if  I  am  in  the  least  intruding — has  it  been  noticed  ?' 

Lawford  hesitated.  'Oh,  yes,'  he  said  slowly,  'it  has 
been  noticed — my  wife,  a  few  friends.' 

'Do  you  mind  this  infernal  clatter?'  said  Herbert,  lay- 
ing his  fingers  on  the  open  casement. 

'No,  no.    And  you  think  ?' 

'My  dear  fellow,  I  don't  think  anything.  It's  all  the 
craziest  conjecture.  Stranger  things  even  than  this  have 
happened.  There  are  dozens  here — in  print.  What  are 
we  human  beings  after  all?  Clay  in  the  hands  of  the 

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potter.  Our  bodies  are  merely  an  inheritance,  packed 
tight  and  corded  up.  We  have  practically  no  control 
over  their  main  functions.  We  can't  even  replace  a  little 
finger-nail.  And  look  at  the  faces  of  us — what  atrocious 
mockeries  most  of  them  are  of  any  kind  of  image!  But 
we  know  our  bodies  change — age,  sickness,  thought,  pas- 
sion, fatality.  It  proves  they  are  amazingly  plastic.  And 
merely  even  as  a  theory  it  is  not  in  the  least  untenable 
that  by  force  of  some  violent  convulsive  effort  from  out- 
side one's  body  might  change.  ...  It  answers  with  odd 
voluntariness  to  friend  or  foe,  smile  or  snarl.  As  for  what 
we  call  the  laws  of  Nature,  they  are  pure  assumptions 
to-day,  and  may  be  nothing  better  than  scrap-iron  to-mor- 
row. Good  Heavens,  Law  ford,  consider  man's  abysmal 
impudence.'  He  smoked  on  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
'You  say  you  fell  asleep  down  there  ?' 

Law  ford  nodded.  Herbert  tapped  his  cigarette  on  the 
sill.  'Just  following  up  our  ludicrous  conjecture,  you 
know,'  he  remarked  musingly,  'it  wasn't  such  a  bad  oppor- 
tunity for  the  poor  chap.' 

'But  surely,'  said  Lawford,  speaking  as  it  were  out  of 
a  dream  of  candle-light  and  reverberating  sound  and 
clearest  darkness,  towards  this  strange  deliberate  phantom 
with  the  unruffled  clear-cut  features — 'surely  then,  in  that 
case,  he  is  here  now?  And  yet,  on  my  word  of  honour, 
though  every  friend  I  ever  had  in  the  world  should  deny 
it,  I  am  the  same.  Memory  stretches  back  clear  and 
sound  to  my  childhood.  I  can  see  myself  with  extraordi- 
nary lucidity,  how  I  think,  my  motives  and  all  that;  and 
in  spite  of  these  voices  that  I  seem  to  hear,  and  this  pe- 
culiar kind  of  longing  to  break  away,  as  it  were,  just  to 
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press  on — it  is  I,  I  myself,  that  am  speaking  to  you  now 
out  of  this — this  mask.' 

Herbert  glanced  reflectively  at  his  companion.  'You 
mustn't  let  me  tire  you,'  he  said ;  'but  even  on  our  theory 
it  would  not  necessarily  follow  that  you  yourself  would 
be  much  affected.  It's  true  this  fellow  Sabathier  really 
was  something  of  a  personality.  He  had  a  rather  un- 
usual itch  for  life,  for  trying  on  and  on  to  squeeze  some- 
thing out  of  experience  that  isn't  there;  and  he  seemed 
never  to  weary  of  a  magnificent  attempt  to  find  in  his 
fellow-creatures,  especially  in  the  women  he  met,  what 
even — if  they  have  it — they  cannot  give.  The  little 
book  I  wanted  to  show  you  is  partly  autobiographical  and 
really  does  manage  to  set  the  fellow  on  his  feet.  Even 
there  he  does  absolutely  take  one's  imagination.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  thrill  qf  picking  him  up  in  the  Charing 
Cross  Road.  You  see,  I  had  known  the  queer  old  tomb- 
stone for  years.  He's  enormously  vivid — quite  beyond 
my  feebleness  to  describe,  with  a  kind  of  French  verve 
and  rapture.  Unluckily  we  can't  get  nearer  than  two 
years  to  his  death.  I  shouldn't  mind  guessing  some  last 
devastating  dream  swept  over  him,  held  him  the  breath 
of  an  instant  too  long  beneath  the  wave,  and  he  caved  in. 
We  know  he  killed  himself ;  and  perhaps  lived  to  regret 
it  ever  after. 

'After  all,  what  is  this  precious  dying  we  talk  so  much 
about?'  Herbert  continued  after  a  while,  his  eyes  rest- 
lessly wandering  from  shelf  to  shelf.  'You  remember 
our  talk  in  the  churchyard?  We  all  know  that  the  body 
fades  quick  enough  when  its  occupant  is  gone.  Suppos- 
ing even  in  the  sleep  of  the  living  it  lies  very  feebly 
guarded.  And  supposing  in  that  state  some  infernally 

135 


The  Return 

potent  thing  outside  it,  wandering  disembodied,  just  hap- 
pens on  it — like  some  hungry  sexton  beetle  on  the  carcase 
of  a  mouse.  Supposing — I  know  it's  the  most  outrageous 
theorising — but  supposing  all  these  years  of  sun  and  dark, 
Sabathier's  emanation,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it, 
horribly  restless,  by  some  fatality  longing  on  and  on  just 
for  life,  or  even  for  the  face,  the  voice,  of  some  "impos- 
sible she"  whom  he  couldn't  get  in  this  muddled  world, 
simply  loathing  all  else;  supposing  he  has  been  lingering 
in  ambush  down  beside  those  poor  old  dusty  bones  that 
had  poured  out  for  him  such  marrowy  hospitality — oh,  I 
know  it;  the  dead  do.  And  then,  by  a  chance,  one  quiet 
autumn  evening,  a  veritable  godsend  of  a  little  Miss  Muf- 
fet  comes  wandering  down  under  the  shade  of  his  im- 
mortal cypresses,  half  asleep,  fagged  out,  depressed  in 
mind  and  body,  perhaps :  imagine  yourself  in  his  place,  and 
he  in  yours !'  Herbert  stood  up  in  his  eagerness,  his  sleek 
hair  shining.  'The  one  clinching  chance  of  a  century! 
Wouldn't  you  have  made  a  fight  for  it?  Wouldn't  you 
have  risked  the  raid?  I  can  just  conceive  it — the  amaz- 
ing struggle  in  that  darkness  within  a  darkness ;  like  some 
dazed  alien  bee  bursting  through  the  sentinels  of  a  hive; 
one  mad  impetuous  clutch  at  victory;  then  the  appalling 
stirring  on  the  other  side;  the  groping  back  to  a  house 
dismantled,  rearranged,  not,  mind  you,  disorganised  or 
disintegrated.  .  .  /  He  broke  off  with  a  smile,  as  if  of 
apology  for  his  long,  fantastic  harangue. 

Law  ford  sat  listening,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Herbert's 
colourless  face.  There  was  not  a  sound  else,  it  seemed, 
than  that  slightly  drawling  scrupulous  voice  poking  its 
way  amid  a  maze  of  enticing,  baffling  thoughts.  Herbert 
136 


The  Return 

turned  away  with  a  shrug.  'It's  tempting  stuff,'  he  said, 
choosing  another  cigarette.  'But  anyhow,  the  poor  beggar 
failed.' 

'Failed?' 

'Why,  surely ;  if  he  had  succeeded  I  should  not  now  be 
talking  to  a  mere  imperfect  simulacrum,  to  the  outward 
illusion  of  a  passing  likeness  to  the  man,  but  to  Sabathier 
himself !'  His  eyes  moved  slowly  round  and  dwelt  for  a 
moment  with  a  dark,  quiet  scrutiny  on  his  visitor. 

'You  say  a  passing  likeness ;  do  you  mean  that  ?' 

Herbert  smiled  indulgently.  'If  one  can  mean  what  is 
purely  a  speculation.  I  am  only  trying  to  look  at  the 
thing  dispassionately,  you  see.  We  are  so  much  the 
slaves  of  mere  repetition.  Here  is  life — yours  and  mine 
— a  kind  of  plenum  in  vacuo.  It  is  only  when  we  begin 
to  play  the  eavesdropper;  when  something  goes  askew; 
when  one  of  the  sentries  on  the  frontier  of  the  unexpected 
shouts  a  hoarse  "Qui  vive?" — it  is  only  then  we  begin  to 
question;  to  prick  our  aldermen  and  pinch  the  calves  of 
our  kings.  Why,  who  is  there  can  answer  to  anybody's 
but  his  own  satisfaction  just  that  one  fundamental  ques- 
tion— Are  we  the  prisoners,  the  slaves,  the  inheritors,  the 
creatures,  or  the  creators  of  our  bodies?  Fallen  angels 
or  horrific  dust?  As  for  identity  or  likeness  or  personal- 
ity, we  have  only  our  neighbours'  nod  for  them,  and  just 
a  fading  memory.  No,  the  old  fairy  tales  knew  better; 
and  witchcraft's  witchcraft  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
Honestly,  and  just  of  course  on  that  one  theory,  Law- 
ford,  I  can't  help  thinking  that  Sabathier's  raid  only  just 
so  far  succeeded  as  to  leave  his  impression  in  the  wax. 
It  doesn't,  of  course,  follow  that  it  will  necessarily  end 

137 


The  Return 

there.  It  might — it  may  be  even  now  just  gradually  fad- 
ing away.  It  may,  you  know,  need  driving  out — with 
whips  and  scorpions.  It  might,  perhaps,  work  in.' 

Law  ford  sat  cold  and  still.  'It's  no  good,  no  good/  he 
said,  'I  don't  understand;  I  can't  follow  you.  I  was  al- 
ways stupid,  always  bigoted  and  cocksure.  These  things 
have  never  seemed  anything  but  old  women's  tales  to  me. 
And  now  I  must  pay  for  it.  And  this  Nicholas  Sabathier ; 
you  say  he  was  a  blackguard  ?' 

'Well,'  said  Herbert  with  a  faint  smile,  'that  depends 
on  your  definition  of  the  word.  He  wasn't  a  flunkey, 
a  fool,  or  a  prig,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  He  wasn't 
perhaps  on  Mrs  Grundy's  visiting  list.  He  wasn't  ex- 
actly gregarious.  And  yet  in  a  sense  that  kind  of  tem- 
perament is  so  rare  that  Sappho,  Nelson,  and  Shelley 
shared  it.  To  the  stodgy,  suety  world  of  course  it's  little 
else  than  sheer  moonshine,  midsummer  madness.  Natur- 
ally, in  its  own  charming  and  stodgy  way  the  world  kept 
flickering  cold  water  in  his  direction.  Naturally  it 
hissed.  ...  I  shall  find  the  book.  You  shall  have  the 
book;  oh  yes.' 

'There's  only  one  more  question/  said  Law  ford  in  a 
dull,  slow  voice,  stooping  and  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands.  'I  know  it's  impossible  for  you  to  realise — but  to 
me  time  seems  like  that  water  there,  to  be  heaping  up 
about  me.  I  wait,  just  as  one  waits  when  the  conductor 
of  an  orchestra  lifts  his  hand  and  in  a  moment  the  whole 
surge  of  brass  and  wood,  cymbal  and  drum  will  crash  out 
• — and  sweep  me  under.  I  can't  tell  you  Herbert,  how  it 
all  is,  with  just  these  groping  stirrings  of  that  mole  in 
my  mind's  dark.  You  say  it  may  be  this  face,  working 
in!  God  knows.  I  find  it  easy  to  speak  to  you — this 
138 


The  Return 

cold,  clear  sense,  you  know.  The  others  feel  too  much, 

or  are  afraid,  or Let  me  think — yes,  I  was  going  to 

ask  you  a  question.  But  no  one  can  answer  it.'  He 
peered  darkly,  with  white  face  suddenly  revealed  between 
his  hands.  'What  remains  now?  Where  do  /  come  in? 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do  ?' 

And  at  that  moment  there  sounded,  even  above  the 
monotonous  roar  of  the  water  beyond  the  window — there 
fell  the  sound  of  a  light  footfall  approaching  along  the 
corridor. 

'Listen/  said  Herbert;  'here's  my  sister  coming;  we'll 
ask  her.' 


139 


Chapter  Thirteen 


THE  door  opened.  Lawford  rose,  and  into  the 
further  rays  of  the  candlelight  entered  a  rather 
slim  figure  in  a  light  summer  gown. 

'Just  home  ?'  said  Herbert. 

'We've  been  for  a  walk ' 

'My  sister  always  forgets  everything,'  said  Herbert, 
turning  to  Lawford;  'even  tea-time.  This  is  Mr  Law- 
ford,  Grisel.  We've  been  arguing  no  end.  And  we  want 
you  to  give  a  decision.  It's  just  this:  Supposing  if  by 
some  impossible  trick  you  had  come  in  now,  not  the 
charming  familiar  sister  you  are,  but  shorter,  fatter,  fair 
and  round-faced,  quite  different,  physically,  you  know — 
what  would  you  do?' 

'What  nonsense  you  talk,  Herbert!' 

'Yes,  but  supposing:  a  complete  transmogrification — by 
some  unimaginable  ingression  or  enchantment,  by  nibbling 
a  bunch  of  roses,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it?' 

'Only  physically?' 

'Well,  yes,  actually;  but  potentially,  why — that's  an- 
other matter.' 

The  dark  eyes  passed  slowly  from  her  brother's  face 
and  rested  gravely  on  their  visitor's. 

'Is  he  making  fun  of  me?' 

Lawford  almost  imperceptibly  shook  his  head. 

'But  what  a  question!  And  I've  had  no  tea.'  She 
drew  her  gloves  slowly  through  her  hand.  'The  thing, 
140 


The  Return 

of  course,  isn't  possible,  I  know.  But  shouldn't  I  go 
mad,  don't  you  think  ?' 

Lawford  gazed  quietly  back  into  the  clear,  grave,  de- 
liberate eyes.  'Suppose,  suppose,  just  for  the  sake  of 
argument — not,'  he  suggested. 

She  turned  her  head  and  reflected,  glancing  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  pure,  steady  candle-flames. 

'And  what  was  your  answer?'  she  said,  looking  over 
her  shoulder  at  her  brother. 

'My  dear  child,  you  know  what  my  answers  are  like !' 

'And  yours?' 

Lawford  took  a  deep  breath,  gazing  mutely,  forlornly, 
into  the  lovely  untroubled  peace  of  her  eyes,  and  without 
the  least  warning  tears  swept  up  into  his  own.  With  an 
immense  effort  he  turned,  and  choking  back  every  sound, 
beating  back  every  thought,  groped  his  way  towards  the 
square  black  darkness  of  the  open  door. 

'I  must  think,  I  must  think,'  he  managed  to  whisper, 
lifting  his  hand  and  steadying  himself.  He  caught  over 
his  shoulder  the  glimpse  of  a  curiously  distorted  vision,  a 
lifted  candle,  and  a  still  face  gazing  after  him  with  in- 
finitely grieved  eyes,  then  found  himself  groping  and 
stumbling  down  the  steep,  uneven  staircase  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  queer  old  wooden  and  hushed  and  lonely 
house.  The  night  air  cold  on  his  face  calmed  his  mind. 
He  turned  and  held  out  his  hand. 

'You'll  come  again?'  Herbert  was  saying,  with  a  hint 
of  anxiety,  even  of  apology  in  his  voice. 

Lawford  nodded,  with  eyes  fixed  blankly  on  the  candle, 
and  turning  once  more,  made  his  way  slowly  down  the 
narrow  green-bordered  path  upon  which  the  stars  rained 
a  scattered  light  so  feeble  it  seemed  but  as  a  haze  that 

141 


The  Return 

blurred  the  darkness.  He  pushed  open  the  little  white 
wicket  and  turned  his  face  towards  the  soundless,  leaf- 
crowned  hill.  He  had  advanced  hardly  a  score  of  steps 
in  the  thick  dust  when  almost  as  if  its  very  silence  had 
struck  upon  his  ear  he  remembered  the  black  broken 
grave  with  its  sightless  heads  that  lay  beyond  the  leaves. 
And  fear,  vast  and  menacing,  fear  such  as  only  children 
know,  broke  like  a  sea  of  darkness  on  his  heart.  He 
stopped  dead — cold,  helpless,  trembling1.  And.  in  the 
silence  he  heard  a  faint  cry  behind  him  and  light  footsteps 
pursuing  him.  He  turned  again.  In  the  thick  close 
gloom  beneath  the  enormous  elm-boughs  the  grey  eyes 
shone  clearly  visible  in  the  face  upturned  to  him.  'My 
brother,'  she  began  breathlessly — 'the  little  French  book. 
It  was  I  who — who  mislaid  it.' 

The  set,  stricken  face  listened  unmoved. 

'You  are  ill.  Come  back!  I  am  afraid  you  are  very 
ill.' 

'It's  not  that,  not  that,'  Law  ford  muttered;  'don't  leave 
me;  I  am  alone.  Don't  question  me,'  he  said  strangely, 
looking  down  into  her  face,  clutching  her  hand;  'only 
understand  that  I  can't,  I  can't  go  on.'  He  swept  a  lean 
arm  towards  the  unseen  churchyard.  'I  am  afraid.' 

The  cold  hand  clasped  his  closer.  'Hush,  don't  speak ! 
Come  back;  come  back.  I  am  with  you,  a  friend,  you 
see ;  come  back.' 

Law  ford  clutched  her  hand  as  a  blind  man  in  sudden 
peril  might  clutch  the  hand  of  a  child.  He  saw  nothing 
clearly;  spoke  almost  without  understanding  his  words. 
'Oh,  but  it's  must'  he  said;  'I  must  go  on.  You  see- — 
why,  everything  depends  on  struggling  through:  the 

future!  But  if  you  only  knew There!'  Again  his 

142 


The  Return 

arm  swept  out,  and  the  lean  terrified  face  turned 
shuddering  from  the  dark. 

'I  do  know;  believe  me,  believe  me!  I  can  guess. 
See,  I  am  coming  with  you ;  we  will  go  together.  As  if, 
as  if  I  did  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  afraid.  Oh,  believe 
me;  no  one  is  near;  we  go  on;  and  see!  it  gradually, 
gradually  lightens.  How  thankful  I  am  I  came.' 

She  had  turned  and  they  were  steadily  ascending  as  if 
pushing  their  way,  battling  on  through  some  obstacle  of 
the  mind  rather  than  of  the  senses  beneath  the  star- 
powdered  callous  vault  of  night.  And  it  seemed  to  Law- 
ford  as  if,  as  they  pressed  on  together,  some  obscure  de- 
testable presence  as  slowly,  as  doggedly  had  drawn 
worsted  aside.  He  could  see  again  the  peaceful  out- 
spread branches  of  the  trees,  the  lych-gate  standing  in 
clear-cut  silhouette  against  the  liquid  dusk  of  the  sky.  A 
strange  calm  stole  over  his  mind.  The  very  meaning  and 
memory  of  his  fear  faded  out  and  vanished,  as  the  passed- 
away  clouds  of  a  storm  that  leave  a  purer,  serener  sky. 

They  stopped  and  stood  together  on  the  brow  of  the 
little  hill,  and  Lawford,  still  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
looked  back  across  the  hushed  and  lightless  countryside. 
'It's  all  gone  now/  he  said  wearily,  'and  now  there's 
nothing  left.  You  see,  I  cannot  even  ask  your  forgive- 
ness— and  a  stranger !' 

'Please  don't  say  that — unless — unless — a  "pilgrim" 
too.  I  think,  surely,  you  must  own  we  did  have  the 
best  of  it  that  time.  Yes — and  I  don't  care  who  may  be 
listening — but  we  did  win  through/ 

'What  can  I  say?  How  shall  I  explain?  How  shall 
I  make  you  understand?' 

The  clear  grey  eyes  showed  not  the  faintest  perturba- 

143 


The  Return 

tion.  'But  I  do;  I  do  indeed,  in  part;  I  do  understand, 
ever  so  faintly.' 

'And  now  I  will  come  back  with  you' 

They  paused  in  the  darkness  face  to  face,  the  silence 
of  the  sky,  arched  in  its  vastness  above  the  little  hill,  the 
only  witness  of  their  triumph. 

She  turned  unquestioningly.  And  laughing  softly — 
almost  as  children  do,  the  stalking  shadows  of  a  twilight 
wood  behind  them — they  trod  in  silence  back  to  the  house. 
They  said  good-bye  at  the  gate,  and  Law  ford  started  once 
more  for  home.  He  walked  slowly,  conscious  of  an  al- 
most intolerable  weariness,  as  if  his  strength  had  suddenly 
been  wrested  away  from  him.  And  at  some  distance  be- 
yond the  top  of  the  hill  he  sat  down  on  the  bank  beside  a 
nettled  ditch,  and  with  his  book  pressed  down  upon  the 
wayside  grass  struck  a  match,  and  holding  it  low  in  the 
scented,  windless  air  turned  slowly  the  cockled  leaf. 

Few  of  them  were  alike  except  for  the  dinginess  of  the 
print  and  the  sinister  smudge  of  the  portraits.  All  were 
sewn  roughly  together  into  a  mould-stained,  marbled 
cover.  He  lit  a  second  match,  and  as  he  did  so  glanced 
as  if  inquiringly  over  his  shoulder.  And  a  score  or  so  of 
pages  before  the  end  he  came  at  last  upon  the  name  he 
was  seeking,  and  turned  the  page. 

It  was  a  likeness  even  more  striking  in  its  crudeness  of 
ink  and  line  and  paper  than  the  most  finished  of  portraits 
could  have  been.  It  repelled,  and  yet  it  fascinated  him. 
He  had  not  for  a  moment  doubted  Herbert's  calm  con- 
viction. And  yet  as  he  stooped  in  the  grass,  closely 
scrutinising  the  blurred  obscure  features,  he  felt  the 
faintest  surprise  not  so  much  at  the  significant  resem- 
blance but  at  his  own  composure,  his  own  steady,  un- 
144 


The  Return 

flinching  confrontation  with  this  sinister  and  intangible 
adversary.  The  match  burned  down  to  his  ringers.  It 
hissed  faintly  in  the  grass. 

He  stuffed  the  book  into  his  pocket,  and  stared  into  the 
pale  dial  of  his  watch.  It  was  a  few  minutes  after  eleven. 
Midnight,  then,  would  just  see  him  in.  He  rose  stiffly 
and  yawned  in  sheer  exhaustion.  Then,  hesitating,  he 
turned  his  head  and  looked  back  towards  the  hollow. 
But  a  vague  foreboding  held  him  back.  A  sour  and 
vacuous  incredulity  swept  over  him.  What  was  the  use 
of  all  this  struggling  and  vexation?  What  gain  in  living 
on  ?  Once  dead  his  sluggish  spirit  at  least  would  find  its 
rest.  Dust  to  dust  it  would  indeed  be  for  him.  What 
else,  in  sober  earnest,  had  he  been  all  his  daily  stolid  life 
but  half  dead,  scarce  conscious,  without  a  living  thought, 
or  desire,  in  head  or  heart  ? 

And  while  he  was  still  gloomily  debating  within  him- 
self he  had  turned  towards  home,  and  soon  was  walking 
in  a  kind  of  reverie,  even  his  extreme  tiredness  in  part 
forgotten,  and  only  a  far-away  dogged  recollection  in  his 
mind  that  in  spite  of  shame,  in  spite  of  all  his  miserable 
weakness,  the  words  had  been  uttered  once  for  all,  and 
in  all  sincerity,  'We  did  win  through.' 

Yet  a  desolate  and  odd  air  of  strangeness  seemed  to 
drape  his  unlighted  house  as  he  stood  looking  up  in  a  kind 
of  furtive  communion  with  its  windows.  It  affected  him 
with  that  discomforting  air  of  extreme  and  meaningless 
novelty  that  things  very  familiar  sometimes  take  upon 
themselves.  In  this  leaden  tiredness  no  impression  could 
be  trustworthy.  His  lids  shut  of  themselves  as  he  softly 
mounted  the  steps.  It  seemed  a  needlessly  wide  door  that 
soundlessly  admitted  him.  But  however  hard  he  pressed 

145 


The  Return 

the  key  his  bedroom  door  remained  stubbornly  shut 
until  he  found  that  it  was  already  unlocked  and  he  had 
only  to  turn  the  handle.  A  night-light  burned  in  a  little 
basin  on  the  washstand.  The  room  was  hung,  as  it  were, 
with  the  stillness  of  night.  And  half  lying  on  the  bed  in 
her  dressing-gown,  her  head  leaning  on  the  rail  at  the 
foot,  was  Alice,  just  as  sleep  had  overtaken  her. 

Law  ford  returned  to  the  door  and  listened.  It  seemed 
he  heard  a  voice  talking  downstairs,  and  yet  not  talking, 
for  it  ran  on  and  on  in  an  incessant  slightly  argumentative 
monotony  that  had  neither  break  nor  interruption.  He 
closed  the  door,  and  stooping  laid  his  hand  softly  on  Alice's 
narrow,  still  childish  hand  that  lay  half-folded  on  her 
knee.  Her  eyes  opened  instantly  and  gazed  widely  into 
his  face.  A  slow  vacant  smile  of  sleep  came  and  went 
and  her  fingers  tightened  gently  over  his  as  again  her  lids 
drooped  down  over  the  drowsy  blue  eyes. 

'At  last,  at  last,  dear,'  she  said;  'I  have  been  waiting 
such  a  time.  But  we  mustn't  talk  much.  Mother 
is  waiting  up,  reading.' 

Faintly  through  the  close-shut  door  came  the  sound  of 
that  distant  expressionless  voice  monotonously  rising  and 
falling. 

'Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  dear?'  Alice  still  sleepily 
whispered.  'Would  I  have  asked  a  single  question  ?  How 
could  I?  Oh,  if  you  had  only  trusted  me!' 

'But  the  change — the  change,  Alice!  You  must  have 
seen  that.  You  spoke  to  me,  you  did  think  I  was  only  a — 
a  stranger ;  and  even  when  you  knew,  it  was  only  fear  on 
your  face,  dearest,  and  aversion;  and  you  turned  to  your 
mother  first.  Don't  think,  Alice,  that  I  am  ...  God  only 
knows- — I'm  not  complaining.  But  truth  is  best  what- 
146 


The  Return 

ever  it  is.  I  do  feel  that.  You  mustn't  be  afraid  of  hurt- 
ing me,  my  dear.' 

Her  very  hands  seemed  to  quicken  in  his  as  now,  with 
sleep  quite  gone,  the  fret  of  memory  returned,  and  she 
must  reassure  both  herself  and  him.  'But  you  see,  dear, 
mother  had  told  me  that  you — besides,  I  did  know  you  at 
once,  really ;  quite  inside,  you  know,  deep  down.  I  know 
1  was  perplexed;  I  didn't  understand;  but  that  was  all. 
Why,  even  when  you  came  up  in  the  dark,  and  we  talked 
— if  you  only  knew  how  miserable  I  had  been — though  I 
knew  even  then  there  was  something  different,  still  I  was 
not  a  bit  afraid.  Was  I?  And  shouldn't  I  have  been 
afraid,  horribly  afraid,  if  you  had  not  been  you?'  She 
repressed  a  little  shudder,  and  clasped  his  hand  more 
closely.  'Don't  let  us  say  anything  more  about  it,  she  im- 
plored him;  'we  are  just  together  again,  you  and  I;  that 
is  all  that  matters.'  But  her  words  were  like  brave  sol- 
diers who  have  fought  their  way  through  an  ambuscade 
but  have  left  all  confidence  behind  them. 

Lawford  listened;  and  that  was  enough  just  now — 
that  she  still,  in  spite  of  doubt,  believed  in  him,  and 
thought  and  cared  for  him.  He  was  too  tired  to  have  re- 
fused the  least  kindness.  He  made  no  answer,  but  leant 
his  head  on  the  cool,  slender  fingers  in  gratitude  and  peace. 
And,  just  as  he  was,  he  almost  instantly  fell  asleep.  He 
woke  in  the  darkness  to  find  himself  alone.  He  groped 
his  way  heavily  to  the  door  and  turned  the  handle.  But 
now  it  was  really  locked.  Energy  failed  him.  'I  suppose 
— Sheila  .  .  .'  he  muttered. 


147 


Chapter  Fourteen 


SHEILA,  calm,  alert,  reserved,  was  sitting  at  the 
open  window  when  he  awoke  again.  His  break- 
fast tray  stood  on  a  little  table  beside  the  bed.  He 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  looked  at  his  wife.  The 
morning  light  shone  full  on  her  features  as  she  turned 
quickly  at  sound  of  his  stirring. 

'You  have  slept  late,'  she  said,  in  a  low,  mellow  voice. 

'Have  I,  Sheila  ?  I  suppose  I  was  tired  out.  It  is  very 
kind  of  you  to  have  got  everything  ready  like  this.' 

'I  am  afraid,  Arthur,  I  was  thinking  rather  of  the 
maids.  I  like  to  inconvenience  them  as  little  as  possible; 
in  their  usual  routine,  I  mean.  How  are  you  feeling,  do 
you  think,  this  morning?' 

'I — I  haven't  seen  the  glass,  Sheila.' 

She  paused  to  place  a  little  pencil  tick  at  the  foot  of  the 
page  of  her  butcher's  book.  'And  did  you — did  you  try  ?' 

'Did  I  try?    Try  what?' 

'I  understood/  she  said,  turning  slowly  in  her  chair, 
'you  gave  me  to  understand  that  you  went  out  with  the 
specific  intention  of  trying  to  regain.  .  .  .  But  there,  for- 
give me,  Arthur ;  I  think  I  must  be  getting  a  little  bit  hard- 
ened to  the  position,  so  far  at  least  as  any  hope  is  in  my 
mind  of  rather  amateurish  experiments  being  of  much 
help.  I  may  seem  unsympathetic  in  saying  frankly  what 
I  feel.  But  amateurish  or  no,  you  are  curiously  erratic. 
Why,  if  you  really  were  the  Dr  Ferguson  whose  part 
148 


The  Return 

you  play  so  admirably  you  could  scarcely  spend  a  more 
active  life.' 

'All  you  mean,  Sheila,  I  suppose,  is  that  I  have  failed.' 

'  "Failed"  did  not  enter  my  mind.  I  thought,  looking 
at  you  just  now  in  your  clothes  on  the  bed,  one  might  for 
the  moment  be  deceived  into  thinking  there  was  a  slight — 
quite  the  slightest  improvement.  There  was  not  quite 
that' — she  hovered  for  the  right  word — 'that  tenseness. 
Whether  or  not,  whether  you  desired  any  such  change  or 
didn't,  I  should  have  supposed  in  any  case  it  would  have 
been  better  to  act  as  far  as  possible  like  any  ordinary  per- 
son. You  were  certainly  in  an  extraordinarily  sound 
sleep.  I  was  almost  alarmed;  until  I  remembered  that  it 
was  a  little  after  two  when  I  looked  up  from  reading 
aloud  to  keep  myself  awake  and  discovered  that  you  had 
only  just  come  home.  I  had  no  fire.  You  know  how 
easily  late  hours  bring  on  my  headaches;  a  little  thought 
might  possibly  have  suggested  that  I  should  be  anxious 
to  hear.  But  no ;  it  seems  I  cannot  profit  by  experience, 
Arthur.  And  even  now  you  have  not  answered  surely  a 
very  natural  question.  You  do  not  recollect,  perhaps,  ex- 
actly what  did  happen  last  night?  Did  you  go  in  the 
direction  even  of  Widderstone  ?' 

'Yes,  Sheila,  I  went  to  Widderstone.' 

'It  was  of  course  absurd  to  suppose  that  sitting  on  a 
seat  beside  the  broken-down  grave  of  a  suicide  would 
have  the  slightest  effect  on  one's — one's  physical  condi- 
tion ;  though  possibly  it  might  affect  one's  brain.  It  would 
mine;  I  am  at  least  certain  of  that.  It  was  your  own 
prescription,  however ;  and  it  merely  occurred  to  me  to  in- 
quire whether  the  actual  experience  has  not  brought  you 
round  to  my  own  opinion.' 

149 


The  Return 

'Yes,  I  think  it  has,'  Law  ford  answered  calmly.  'But 
I  don't  quite  see  what  suicide  has  got  to  do  with  it ;  unless 
You  know  Widderstone,  then,  Sheila?' 

'I  drove  there  last  Saturday  afternoon.' 

'For  prayer  or  praise?'  Although  Lawford  had  not 
actually  raised  his  head,  he  became  conscious  rather  of 
the  wonderfully  adjusted  mass  of  hair  than  of  the  pained 
dignity  in  the  face  that  was  now  closely  regarding  him. 

'I  went,'  came  the  rigidly  controlled  retort,  'simply  to 
test  an  inconceivable  story.' 

'And  returned?' 

'Convinced,  Arthur,  of  its  inconceivability.  But  if 
you  would  kindly  inform  me  what  precise  formula  you 
followed  at  Widderstone  last  night,  I  would  tell  you  why  I 
think  the  explanation,  or  rather  your  first  account  of  the 
matter,  is  not  an  explanation  of  the  facts.' 

Lawford  shot  a  rather  doglike  glance  over  his  toast. 
'Danton?'  he  said. 

'Candidly,  Arthur,  Mr  Danton  doubts  the  whole  story. 
Your  very  conduct — well,  it  would  serve  no  useful  pur- 
pose to  go  into  that.  Candidly,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr. 
Danton  did  make  some  extremely  helpful  suggestions — 
basing  them,  of  course,  on  the  truth  of  your  account.  He 
has  seen  a  good  deal  of  life ;  and  certainly  very  mysterious 
things  do  occur  to  quite  innocent  and  well-meaning  people 
without  the  faintest  shadow  of  warning,  and  as  Mr.  Beth- 
any himself  said,  evil  birds  do  come  home  to  roost,  and 
often  out  of  a  clear  sky,  as  it  were.  But  there,  every 
fresh  solution  that  occurs  to  me  only  makes  the  thing 
more  preposterous,  more,  I  was  going  to  say,  disreputable 
— I  mean,  of  course,  to  the  outside  world.  And  we  have 
our  duties  to  perform  to  them  too,  I  suppose.  Why, 
150 


The  Return 

what  can  we  say?  What  plausible  account  of  ourselves 
have  we  ?  We  shall  never  be  able  to  look  anybody  in  the 
face  again.  I  can  only — I  am  compelled  to  believe  that 
God  has  been  pleased  to  make  this  precise  visitation  upon 
us — an  eye  for  an  eye,  I  suppose,  somewhere.  And  to 
that  conviction  I  shall  hold  until  actual  circumstances 
convince  me  that  it's  false.  What,  however,  and  this  is 
all  that  I  have  to  say  now,  what  I  cannot  understand  are 
your  amazing  indiscretions.' 

'Do  you  understand  your  own,  Sheila?' 

'My  indiscretions,  Arthur?' 

'Well,'  said  Law  ford,  'wasn't  it  indiscreet,  don't  you 
think,  to  risk  divine  retribution  by  marrying  me? 
Shouldn't  you  have  inquired?  Wasn't  it  indiscreet  to 
allow  me  to  remain  here  in — in  my  "visitation  ?"  Wasn't 
it  indiscreet  to  risk  the  moral  stigma  this  unhappy  face  of 
mine  must  cast  on  its  surroundings?  I  am  not  sure 
whether  such  a  change  as  this  constitutes  cruelty.  .  .  . 
Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  fretting  and  babbling  on  like  this?' 

'Am  I  to  understand,  then,  that  you  refuse  positively 
to  discuss  this  horrible  business  any  more?  You  are  do- 
ing your  best  to  drive  me  away,  Arthur;  you  must  see 
that.  Will  you  be  very  disappointed  if  I  refuse  to  go?' 

Law  ford  rose  from  the  bed.  'Listen  just  this  once,'  he 
said,  seating  himself  on  the  corner  of  the  dressing-table. 
'Imagine  all  this — whatever  you  like  to  call  it — obliterated. 
Take  this,'  he  nodded  towards  the  glass,  'entirely  for  itself, 
on  its  own  merits,  as  it  were.  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its 
dead.  Which,  now,  precisely,  really  do  you  prefer — 
him,'  he  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  dispassion- 
ate youthful  picture  on  the  wall,  'him  or  me?' 

He  was  so  close  to  her  now  that  he  could  see  the  faintest 


The  Return 

tremor  on  the  face  that  had  suddenly  become  grey  and 
still  in  the  thin  clear  sunshine. 

'I  own  it,  I  own  it,'  he  went  on,  slowly;  'the  change  is 
more  than  skin-deep  now.  One  can't  go  through  what  I 
have  gone  through  these  last  few  terrifying  days,  Sheila, 
unchanged.  They  have  played  the  devil  with  my  body; 
now  begins  the  tampering  with  my  mind.  Not  even  Dan- 
ton  knows  how  it  will  end.  But  shall  I  tell  you  why  you 
won't,  why  you  can't  answer  me  that  one  question — him 
or  me  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  ?' 

Sheila  slowly  raised  her  eyes. 

'It  is  because,  my  dear,  you  don't  care  the  ghost  of  a 
straw  for  either.  That  one — he  was  worn  out  long  ago, 
and  we  never  knew  it.  I  know  it  now.  Time  and  the 
sheer  going-on  of  day  by  day,  without  either  of  us  guess- 
ing at  it,  wore  that  down  till  it  had  no  more  meaning  for 
you  or  me  than  any  other  faded  remembrance  in  this  inter- 
minable footling  with  truth  that  we  call  life.  And  this 
one — the  whole  abject  meaning  of  it  lies  simply  in  the 
fact  that  it  has  pierced  down  and  shown  us  up.  I  had  no 
courage.  I  couldn't  see  how  feeble  a  hold  I  had  on  life — 
just  one's  friends'  opinions.  It  was  all  at  second  hand. 
What  I  want  to  know  now  is — leave  me  out ;  don't  think, 
or  care,  or  regard  my  living-on  one  shadow  of  an  iota — 
all  I  ask  is,  What  am  I  to  do  for  you  ?'  He  turned  away 
and  stood  staring  down  at  the  cinders  in  the  fireless  grate. 

'I  answer  that  mad  wicked  outburst  with  one  plain 
question,'  said  a  low,  trembling  voice ;  'did  you  or  did  you 
not  go  to  Widderstone  yesterday  ?' 

'I  did  go.' 

'You  sat  there,  just  as  you  said  you  sat  before;  and 
with  all  your  heart  and  soul  strove  to  regain- — yourself  ?' 
152 


The  Return 

Law  ford  lifted  a  still,  colourless  face  into  the  sunlight. 
'No/  he  said;  'I  spent  the  evening  at  the  house  of  a 
friend.' 

'Then  I  say  it  is  infamous.  You  cast  all  this  on  me. 
You  have  brought  me  into  contempt  and  poisoned  Alice's 
whole  life.  You  dream  and  idle  on  just  as  you  used  to  do, 
without  the  least  care  or  thought  or  consideration  for 
others;  and  go  out  in  this  condition — go  out  absolutely 
unashamed — to  spend  the  evening  at  a  friend's.  Peculiar 
friends  they  must  be.  Why,  really,  Arthur,  you  must  be 
mad!' 

Lawford  paused.  Like  a  flock  of  sheep  streaming 
helter-skelter  before  the  onset  of  a  wolf  were  the  thoughts 
that  a  moment  before  had  seemed  so  orderly  and  sober. 
'Not  mad — possessed,'  he  said  softly. 

'And  I  add  this,'  cried  Sheila,  as  it  were  out  of  a  tragic 
mask,  'somewhere  in  the  past,  whether  of  your  own  life, 
or  of  the  lives  of  those  who  brought  you  into  the  world — 
the  world  which  you  pretend  so  conveniently  to  despise — 
somewhere  is  hidden  some  miserable  secret.  God  visits 
all  sins.  On  you  has  fallen  at  last  the  payment.  That  I 
believe.  You  can't  run  away,  any  more  than  a  child 
can  run  away  from  the  cupboard  it  has  been  locked  into 
for  a  punishment.  Who's  going  to  hear  you  now  ?  You 
have  deliberately  refused  to  make  a  friend  of  me.  Fight 
it  out  alone,  then !' 

Lawford  heard  the  door  close,  and  the  dying  away  of 
the  sound  that  had  been  the  unceasing  accompaniment  of 
all  these  later  years — the  rustling  of  his  wife's  skirts,  her 
crisp,  authoritative  footstep.  And  he  turned  towards  the 
flooding  sunlight  that  streamed  in  on  the  upturned  sur- 
face of  the  looking-glass.  No  clear  decisive  thought 

153 


The  Return 

came  into  his  mind,  only  a  vague  recognition  that  so  far 
as  Sheila  was  concerned  this  was  the  end.  No  regret,  no 
remorse  visited  him.  He  was  just  alone  again,  that  was 
all — alone,  as  in  reality  he  had  always  been  alone,  without 
having  the  sense  or  power  to  see  or  to  acknowledge  it. 
All  he  had  said  had  been  the  mere  flotsam  of  the  moment, 
and  now  it  stood  stark  and  irrevocable  between  himself 
and  the  past. 

He  sat  down  dazed  and  stupid.  Again  and  again  a 
struggling  recollection  tried  to  obtrude  itself;  again  and 
again  he  beat  it  back.  And  rather  for  something  to  dis- 
tract his  attention  than  for  any  real  interest  or  enlighten- 
ment he  might  find  in  its  pages,  he  took  out  the  grimy 
dog's-eared  book  that  Herbert  had  given  him,  and  turned 
slowly  over  the  leaves  till  he  came  to  Sabathier  once  more. 
Snatches  of  remembrance  of  their  long  talk  returned  to 
him,  but  just  as  that  dark,  water-haunted  house  had 
seemed  to  banish  remembrance  and  the  reality  of  the  room 
in  which  he  now  sat,  and  of  the  old  familiar  life;  so  now 
the  house,  the  faces  of  yesterday  seemed  in  their  turn  un- 
real, almost  spectral,  and  the  thick  print  on  the  smudgy 
page  no  more  significant  than  a  story  one  reads  and 
throws  away. 

But  a  moment's  comparison  in  the  glass  of  the  two 
faces  side  by  side  suddenly  sharpened  his  attention- — the 
resemblance  was  so  oddly  arresting,  and  yet,  and  yet,  so 
curiously  inconclusive.  There  was  then  something  of  the 
stolid  old  Saxon  left,  he  thought.  Or  had  it  been  re- 
gained? Which  was  it?  Not  merely  the  complexity  of 
the  question,  but  a  half-conscious  distaste  of  attempting 
to  face  it,  set  him  reading  very  slowly  and  laboriously, 
for  his  French  was  little  more  than  fragmentary  recollec- 
154 


The  Return 

tion,  the  first  few  pages  of  the  life  of  this  buried  Saba- 
thier.  But  with  a  disinclination  almost  amounting  to 
aversion  he  made  very  slow  progress.  Many  of  the 
words  were  meaningless  to  him,  and  every  other  moment 
he  found  himself  listening  with  intense  concentration 
for  the  least  hint  of  what  Sheila  was  doing,  of  what  was 
going  on  in  the  house  beneath  him.  He  had  not  very  long 
to  wait.  He  was  sitting  with  his  head  leaning  on  his  hand, 
the  book  unheeded  beneath  the  other  on  the  table,  when 
the  door  opened  again  behind  him,  and  Sheila  entered. 
She  stood  for  a  moment,  calm  and  dignified,  looking 
down  on  him  through  her  veil. 

'Please  understand,  Arthur,  that  I  am  not  taking  this 
step  in  pique,  or  even  in  anger.  It  would  serve  no  pur- 
pose to  go  on  like  this — this  incessant  heedlessless  and 
recrimination.  There  have  been  mistakes,  misconceptions, 
perhaps,  on  both  sides.  To  me  naturally  yours  are  most 
conspicuous.  That  need  not,  however,  blind  me  to  my 
own.' 

She  paused  in  vain  for  an  answer. 

'Think  the  whole  thing  over  candidly  and  quietly,'  she 
began  again  in  a  quiet  rapid  voice.  'Have  you  really 
shown  the  slightest  regard,  I  won't  say  for  me,  or  even 
for  Alice,  but  for  just  the  obvious  difficulties  and — and 
proprieties  of  our  position?  I  have  given  up  as  far  as 
I  can  brooding  on  and  on  over  the  same  horrible  im- 
possible thoughts.  I  withdraw  unreservedly  what  I  said 
just  now  about  punishment.  Whatever  the  evidence, 
it  is  not  even  a  wife's  place  to  judge  like  that.  You  will 
forgive  me  that?' 

Lawford  did  not  turn  his  head.  'Of  course/  he  said, 
looking  rather  vacantly  out  of  the  window,  'it  was  only 

155 


The  Return 

in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  Sheila;  though,  who  knows?  it 
may  be  true.' 

'Well,'  she  took  hold  of  the  great  brass  knob  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  with  one  gloved  hand — 'well,  I  feel  it  is 
my  duty  to  withdraw  it.  Apart  from  it,  I  see  only  too 
clearly  that  even  though  all  that  has  happened  in  these 
last  few  days  was  in  reality  nothing  but  a  horrible  night- 
mare, I  see  that  even  then  what  you  have  said  about  our 
married  life  together  can  never  be  recalled.  You  have 
told  me  quite  deliberately  that  for  years  past  your  life 
has  been  nothing  but  a  pretence — a  sham.  You  implied 
that  mine  had  been  too.  Honestly,  I  was  not  aware 
of  it,  Arthur.  But  supposing  all  that  has  happened 
to  you  had  been  merely  what  might  happen  at  any 
moment  to  anybody,  some  actual  defacement  (you  will 
forgive  me  suggesting  such  a  horrible  thing) — why,  if 
what  you  say  is  true,  even  in  that  case  my  sympathy  would 
have  been  only  a  continual  fret  and  annoyance  to  you. 
And  this — this  change,  I  own,  is  infinitely  harder  to  bear. 
It  would  be  an  outrage  on  common  sense  and  on  all  that 
we  hold  seemly  and — and  sacred  in  life,  even  in  some 
trumpery  story.  You  do,  you  must  see  all  that,  Arthur  ?' 

'Oh  yes,'  said  Law  ford,  narrowing  his  eyes  to  pierce 
through  the  sunlight,  'I  see  all  that.' 

'Then  we  need  not  go  over  it  all  again.  Whatever 
others  may  say,  or  think,  I  shall  still,  at  least  so  long  as 
nothing  occurs  to  the  contrary,  keep  firmly  to  my  present 
convictions.  Mr  Bethany  has  assured  me  repeatedly  that 
he  has  no — no  misgivings;  that  he  understands.  And 
even  if  I  still  doubted,  which  I  don't,  Arthur,  though  it 
would  be  rather  trying  to  have  to  accept  one's  husband 
156 


The  Return 

at  second-hand,  as  it  were,  I  should  have  to  be  satisfied. 
I  dare  say  even  such  an  unheard-of  thing  as  what  we  are 
discussing  now,  or  something  equally  ghastly,  does  occur 
occasionally.  In  foreign  countries,  perhaps.  I  have  not 
studied  such  things  enough  to  say.  We  were  all  very 
much  restricted  in  our  reading  as  children,  and  I  honestly 
think,  not  unwisely.  It  is  enough  for  the  present  to  re- 
peat that  I  do  believe,  and  that  whatever  may  happen — 
and  I  know  absolutely  nothing  about  the  procedure  in 
such  cases — but  whatever  may  happen,  I  shall  still  be 
loyal;  I  shall  always  have  your  interests  at  heart.'  Her 
words  faltered  and  she  turned  her  head  away.  'You  did 
love  me  once,  Arthur,  I  can't  forget  that.'  The  con- 
tralto voice  trembled  ever  so  little,  and  the  gloved  hand 
smoothed  gently  the  brass  knob  beneath. 

'If,'  said  Lawford,  resting  his  face  on  his  hands,  and 
curiously  watching  the  while  his  moving  reflection  in  the 
looking-glass  before  him — 'if  I  said  I  still  loved  you,  what 
then?' 

'But  you  have  already  denied  it,  Arthur.' 

'Yes ;  but  if  I  said  that  that  too  was  said  only  in  haste, 
that  brooding  over  the  trouble  this — this  metamorphosis 
was  bringing  on  us  all  had  driven  me  almost  beyond  endur- 
ance :  supposing  that  I  withdrew  all  that,  and  instead  said 

now  that  I  do  still  love  you,  just  as  I '  he  turned  a 

little,  and  turned  back  again,  'like  this?' 

Sheila  paused.  'Could  any  woman  answer  such  a 
question?'  she  almost  sighed  at  last. 

'Yes,  but/  Lawford  pressed  on,  in  a  voice  almost 
naive  and  stubborn  as  a  child's,  'If  I  tried  to — to  make 
you?  I  did  once,  Sheila.' 

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The  Return 

'I  can't,  I  can't  conceive  such  a  position.  Surely  that 
alone  is  almost  as  frantic  as  it  is  heartless!  Is  it,  is  it 
even  right?' 

'Well,  I  have  not  actually  asked  it.  I  own/  he  added 
moodily,  almost  under  his  breath,  'it  would  be — 
dangerous.  .  .  .  But  there,  Sheila,  this  poor  old  mask  of 
mine  is  wearing  out.  I  am  somehow  convinced  of  that. 
What  will  be  left,  God  only  knows.  You  were 
saying — • — '  He  rose  abruptly.  'Please,  please  sit  down,' 
he  said ;  'I  did  not  notice  you  were  standing.' 

'I  shall  not  keep  you  a  moment,'  she  answered  hur- 
riedly; 'I  will  sit  here.  The  truth  is,  Arthur,'  she  began 
again  almost  solemnly,  'apart  from  all  sentiment  and — 
and  good  intentions,  my  presence  here  only  harasses  you 
and  keeps  you  back.  I  am  not  so  bound  up  in  myself 
that  I  cannot  realise  that.  The  consequence  is  that  after 
calmly — and  I  hope  considerately — thinking  the  whole 
thing  over,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  a- 
rouse  very  little  comment,  the  least  possible  perhaps  in 
the  circumstances,  if  I  just  went  away  for  a  few  days. 
You  are  not  in  any  sense  ill.  In  fact,  I  have  never  known 
you  so — so  robust,  so  energetic.  You  will  be  alone :  Mr 
Bethany,  perhaps.  .  .  .  You  could  go  out  and  come  in  just 
as  you  pleased.  Possibly,'  Sheila  smiled  frankly  beneath 
her  veil,  'even  this  Dr  Ferguson  you  have  invented  will  be 
a  help.  It's  only  the  servants  that  remain  to  be  consid- 
ered.' 

'I  should  prefer  to  be  quite  alone.' 

'Then  do  not  worry  about  them.  I  can  easily  explain. 
And  if  you  would  not  mind  letting  her  in,  Mrs  Gull  can 
come  in  every  other  day  or  so  just  to  keep  things  in  order. 
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The  Return 

She's  entirely  trustworthy  and  discreet.  Or  perhaps,  if 
you  would  prefer ' 

'Mrs  Gull  will  do  nicely,  Sheila.  It's  very  good  of  you 
to  have  given  me  so  much  thought.'  A  long  and  rather 
arduous  pause  followed. 

'Oh,  one  other  thing,  Arthur.  You  sent  out  to  Mr 
Critchett — do  you  remember? — the  night  you  first  came 
home.  I  think,  too,  after  the  first  awful  shock,  when  we 
were  sitting  in  our  bedroom,  you  actually  referred  to — to 
violent  measures.  You  will  promise  me,  I  may  perhaps 
at  least  ask  that,  you  will  promise  me  on  your  word  of 
honour,  for  Alice's  sake,  if  not  for  mine,  to  do  nothing 
rash/ 

'Yes,  yes,'  said  Lawford,  sinking  lower  even  than  he 
had  supposed  possible  into  the  thin  and  lightless  chill  of 
ennui — 'nothing  rash.' 

Sheila  rose  with  a  sigh  only  in  part  suppressed.  'I 
have  not  seen  Mr  Bethany  again.  I  think,  however,  it 
would  be  better  to  let  Harry  know ;  I  mean,  dear,  of  your 
derangement.  After  all,  he  is  one  of  the  family — at  least, 
of  mine.  He  will  not  interfere.  He  would,  perhaps 
quite  naturally,  be  hurt  if  we  did  not  take  him  into 
our  confidence.  Otherwise  there  is  no  pressing  cause 
for  haste,  at  least  for  another  week  or  so.  After 
that,  I  suppose,  something  will  have  to  be  done.  Then 
there's  Mr  Wedderburn ;  wouldn't  it  be  as  well  to  let  him 
know  that  at  least  for  the  present  you  are  quite  unable  to 
think  of  returning  to  town?  That,  too,  in  time  will  have 
to  be  arranged,  I  suppose,  if  nothing  happens  meanwhile ; 
I  mean  if  things  don't  come  right.  And  I  do  hope, 
Arthur,  you  will  not  set  your  mind  too  closely  on  what 

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The  Return 

may  only  prove  false  hopes.  This  is  all  intensely  painful 
to  me;  of  course,  to  us  both.' 

Again  Lawford,  even  though  he  did  not  turn  to  con- 
front it,  became  conscious  of  the  black  veil  turned  towards 
him  tentatively,  speculatively,  impenetrably. 

'Yes/  he  said,  'I'll  write  to  Wedderburn ;  he's  had  his 
ups  and  downs  too.' 

'I  always  rather  fancied  so,'  said  Sheila  reflectively,  'he 
looks  rather  a — a  restless  man.  Oh,  and  then  again,'  she 
broke  off  quickly,  'there's  the  question  of  money.  I 
suppose — it  is  only  a  conjecture — I  suppose  it  would  be 
better  to  do  nothing  in  that  direction  just  for  the  present. 
Ada  has  now  gone  to  the  Bank.  Fifty  pounds,  Arthur; 
it  is  out  of  my  own  private  account — do  you  think  that 
will  be  enough,  just,  of  course,  for  your  present  needs  ?' 

'As  a  bribe,  hush-money,  or  a  thank-offering,  Sheila?' 
murmured  her  husband  wearily. 

'I  don't  follow  you,'  replied  the  discreet  voice  from 
beneath  the  veil. 

He  did  actually  turn  this  time  and  glance  steadily  over 
his  shoulder.  'How  long  are  you  going  for  ?  and  where  ?' 

'I  proposed  to  go  to  my  cousin's,  Bettie  Lovat's;  that 
is,  of  course,  if  you  have  no  objection.  It's  near;  it  will 
be  a  long-deferred  visit;  and  she  need  know  very  little. 
And,  of  course,  if  for  the  least  thing  in  the  world  you 
should  want  me,  there  I  am  within  call,  as  it  were.  And 
you  will  write?  We  are  acting  for  the  best,  Arthur?' 

'So  long  as  it  is  your  best,  Sheila.' 

Sheila  pondered.  'You  think,  you  mean,  they'll  all  say 
I  ought  to  have  stayed.  Candidly,  I  can't  see  it  in  that 
light.  Surely  every  experience  of  life  proves  that  in 
intimate  domestic  matters,  and  especially  in  those  between 
1 60 


The  Return 

husband  and  wife,  only  the  parties  concerned  have  any 
means  of  judging  what  is  best  for  them?  It  has  been  our 
experience  at  any  rate :  though  I  must  in  fairness  confess 
that,  outwardly  at  least,  I  haven't  had  much  of  that  kind 
of  thing  to  complain  of.'  Sheila  paused  again  for  a  reply. 

'What  kind  of  thing?' 

'Domestic  experience,  dear/ 

The  house  was  quiet.  There  was  not  a  sound  stirring 
in  the  still  sunny  road  of  orchards  and  discreet  and  drowsy 
villas.  A  long  silence  followed,  immensely  active  and  alert 
on  the  one  side,  almost  morbidly  lethargic  so  far  as  the 
stooping  figure  in  front  of  the  looking-glass  was  concerned. 

At  last  the  last  haunting  question  came  in  a  kind  of 
croak,  as  if  only  by  a  supreme  effort  could  it  be  compelled 
to  produce  itself  for  consideration. 

'And  Alice,  Sheila?" 

'Alice,  dear,  of  course  goes  with  me.' 

'You  realise/  he  stirred  uneasily,  'you  realise  it  may 
be  final.' 

'My  dear  Arthur,'  cried  Sheila,  'it  is  surely,  apart  from 
mere  delicacy,  a  parental  obligation  to  screen  the  poor 
child  from  the  shock.  Could  she  be  at  such  a  time  in 
any  better  keeping  than  her  mother's?  At  present  she 
only  vaguely  guesses.  To  know  definitely  that  her  father, 
infinitely  worse  than  death,  had — had Oh,  is  it  pos- 
sible to  realise  anything  in  this  awful  cloud  ?  It  would  kill 
her  outright.' 

Lawford  made  no  stir.  The  quietest  of  raps  came  at 
the  door.  'The  money  from  the  Bank,  ma'am,'  said  a 
faint  voice. 

Sheila  carefully  opened  the  door  a  few  inches.  She 
laid  the  blue  envelope  on  the  dressing-table  at  her  hus- 

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The  Return 

band's  elbow.  'You  had  better  perhaps  count  it,'  she  said 
in  a  low  voice — 'forty  in  notes,  the  rest  in  gold,'  and  nar- 
rowed her  eyes  beneath  her  veil  upon  her  husband's  very 
peculiar  method  of  forgetting  his  responsibilities. 

'French?'  she  said  with  a  nod.     'How  very  quaint!' 

Lawford's  eyes  fell  and  rested  gravely  on  the  dingy 
page  of  Herbert's  mean-looking  bundle  of  print.  A  queer 
feeling  of  cold  crept  over  him.  'Yes,'  he  said  vaguely, 
'French/  and  hopelessly  failed  to  fill  in  the  silence  that 
seemed  like  some  rather  sleek  nocturnal  creature  quietly 
waiting  to  be  fed. 

Sheila  swept  softly  towards  the  door.  'Well,  Arthur, 
I  think  that  is  all.  The  servants  will  have  gone  by  this 
evening.  I  have  ordered  a  carriage  for  half -past  twelve. 
Perhaps  you  would  first  write  down  anything  that  occurs 
to  you  to  be  necessary  ?  Perhaps,  too,  it  would  be  better 
if  Dr  Simon  were  told  that  we  shall  not  need  him  any 
more,  that  you  are  thinking  of  a  complete  change  of  scene, 
a  voyage.  He  is  obviously  useless.  Besides,  Mr  Beth- 
any, I  think,  is  going  to  discuss  a  specialist  with  you.  I 
have  written  him  a  little  note,  just  briefly  explaining. 
Shall  I  write  to  Dr  Simon  too?' 

'You  remember  everything,'  said  Lawford,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  it  was  a  remark  he  had  heard  ages  and  ages  ago. 
'It's  only  this  money,  Sheila;  will  you  please  take  that 


away 


'Take  it  away?' 

'I  think,  Sheila,  if  I  do  take  a  voyage  I  should  almost 
prefer  to  work  my  passage.  As  for  a  mere  "change  of 
scene,"  that's  quite  uncostly.' 

'It  is  only  your  face,  Arthur,'  said  Sheila  solemnly, 
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The  Return 

'that  suggest  these  wicked  stabs.  Some  day  you  will 
perhaps  repent  of  every  one.' 

'It  is  possible,  Sheila;  we  none  of  us  stand  still,  you 
know.  One  rips  open  a  lid  sometimes  and  the  wax  face 
rots  before  one's  eyes.  Take  back  your  blue  envelope; 
and  thank  you  for  thinking  of  me.  It's  always  the 
woman  of  the  house  that  has  the  head.' 

'I  wish,'  said  Sheila  almost  pathetically,  and  yet  with 
a  faint  quaver  of  resignation,  'I  wish  it  could  be  said  that 
the  man  of  the  house  sometimes  has  the  heart.  Think  it 
over,  Arthur!' 

Sheila,  with  her  husband's  luncheon  tray,  brought  also 
her  farewells.  Law  ford  surveyed,  not  without  a  faint, 
shy  stirring  of  incredulity,  the  superbly  restrained  pres- 
ence. He  stood  before  her  dry-lipped,  inarticulate,  a 
schoolboy  caught  redhanded  in  the  shabbiest  of  offences. 

'It  is  your  wish  then  that  I  go,  Arthur?'  she  said 
pleadingly. 

He  handed  her  her  money  without  a  word. 

'Very  well,  Arthur;  if  you  won't  take  it,'  she  said.  'I 
should  scarcely  have  thought  this  the  occasion  for  mere 
pride.' 

'The  tenth,'  she  continued,  as  she  squeezed  the  envelope 
into  her  purse,  with  only  the  least  hardening  of  voice, 
'although  I  daresay  you  have  not  troubled  to  remember 
it — the  tenth  will  be  the  eighteenth  anniversary  of  our  wed- 
ding-day. It  makes  parting,  however  advisable,  and 
though  only  for  the  few  days  we  should  think  nothing  of 
in  happier  circumstances,  a  little  harder  to  bear.  But 
there,  all  will  come  right.  You  will  see  things  in  a 
different  light,  perhaps.  Words  may  wound,  but  time 

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The  Return 

will  heal.'  But  even  as  she  now  looked  closely  into  his 
colourless  sunken  face  some  distant  memory  seemed  to 
well  up  irresistibly — the  memory  of  eyes  just  as  ingenuous, 
and  as  unassuming  that  even  in  claiming  her  love  had 
expressed  only  their  stolid  unworthiness. 

'Did  you  know  it  ?  have  you  seen  it  ?'  she  said,  stooping 
forward  a  little.  'I  believe  in  spite  of  all.  .  .  .'  He 
gazed  on  solemnly,  almost  owlishly,  out  of  his  fading 
mask. 

'Wait  till  Mr  Bethany  tells  you;  you  will  believe  it 
perhaps  from  him.'  He  saw  the  grey-gloved  hand  a 
little  reluctantly  lifted  towards  him. 

'Good-bye,  Sheila,'  he  said,  and  turned  mechanically 
back  to  the  window. 

She  hesitated,  listening  to  a  small  far-away  voice  that 
kept  urging  her  with  an  almost  frog-like  pertinacity  to 
do,  to  say  something,  and  yet  as  stubbornly  would  not 
say  what;  and  she  was  gone. 


164 


Chapter  Fifteen 


RAYING  and  gleaming  in  the  sunlight  the  hired 
landau  drove  up  to  the  gate.  Lawford,  peeping 
between  the  blinds,  looked  down  on  the  coach- 
man, with  reins  hanging  loosely  from  his  red  squat- 
thumbed  hand,  seated  in  his  tight  livery  and  indescribable 
hat  on  the  faded  cushions.  One  thing  only  was  in  his 
mind;  and  it  was  almost  with  an  audible  cry  that  he 
turned  towards  the  figure  that  edged,  white  and  trem- 
bling, into  the  chill  room,  to  fling  herself  into  his  arms. 
'Don't  look  at  me/  he  begged  her,  'only  remember,  dearest, 
I  would  rather  have  died  down  there  and  been  never  seen 
again  than  have  given  you  pain.  Run — run,  your  mother's 
calling.  Write  to  me,  think  of  me;  good-bye!' 

He  threw  himself  on  the  bed  and  lay  there  till  evening. 
till  the  door  had  shut  gently  behind  the  last  rat  to  leave 
the  sinking  ship.  All  the  clearness,  the  calmness  were 
gone  again.  Round  and  round  in  dizzy  sickening  flare 
and  clatter  his  thoughts  whirled.  Contempt,  fear,  loath- 
ing, blasphemy,  laughter,  longing:  there  was  no  end. 
Death  was  no  end.  There  was  no  meaning,  no  refuge, 
no  hope,  no  possible  peace.  To  give  up  was  to  go 
to  perdition:  to  go  forward  was  to  go  mad.  And  even 
madness — he  sat  up  with  trembling  lips  in  the  twilight — 
madness  itself  was  only  a  state,  only  a  state.  You  might 
be  bereaved,  and  the  pain  and  hopelessness  of  that  would 
pass.  You  might  be  cast  out,  betrayed,  deserted,  and  still 

165 


The  Return 

be  you,  still  find  solitude  lovely  and  in  a  brave  face  a 
friend.  But  madness ! — it  surged  in  on  him  with  all  the 
clearness  and  emptiness  of  a  dream.  And  he  sat  quite 
still,  his  hand  clutching  the  bedclothes,  his  head  askew, 
waiting  for  the  sound  of  footsteps,  for  the  presences  and 
the  voices  that  have  their  thin-walled  dwelling  beneath  the 
shallow  crust  of  consciousness. 

Inky  blackness  drifted  up  in  wisps,  in  smoke  before  his 
eyes ;  he  was  powerless  to  move,  to  cry  out.  There  was  no 
room  to  turn ;  no  air  to  breathe.  And  yet  there  was  a  low, 
continuous,  never-varying  stir  as  of  an  enormous  wheel 
whirling  in  the  gloom.  Countless  infinitesimal  faces 
arched  like  glimmering  pebbles  the  huge  dim-coloured 
vault  above  his  head.  He  heard  a  voice  above  the  mon- 
strous rustling  of  the  wheel,  clamouring,  calling  him  back. 
He  was  hastening  headlong,  muttering  to  himself  his  own 
flat  meaningless  name,  like  a  child  repeating  as  he  runs 
his  errand.  And  then  as  if  in  a  charmed  cold  pool  he 
awoke  and  opened  his  eyes  again  on  the  gathering  dark- 
ness of  the  great  bedroom,  and  heard  a  quick,  importun- 
ate, long-continued  knocking  on  the  door  below,  as  of 
some  one  who  had  already  knocked  in  vain. 

Cramped  and  heavy-limbed,  he  felt  his  way  across  the 
room  and  lit  a  candle.  He  stood  listening  awhile :  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  door  that  hung  a  little  open.  All  in  the  room 
seemed  acutely  fantastically  still.  The  flame  burned  dim, 
enisled  in  the  sluggish  air.  He  stole  slowly  to  the  door, 
looked  out,  and  again  listened.  Again  the  knocking 
broke  out,  more  impetuously  and  yet  with  a  certain  re- 
straint and  caution.  Shielding  the  flame  of  his  candle  in 
the  shell  of  his  left  hand,  Lawford  moved  slowly,  with 
chin  uplifted,  to  the  stairs.  He  bent  forward  a  little,  and 
166 


stood  motionless  and  drawn  up,  the  pupils  of  his  eyes 
slowly  contracting  and  expanding  as  he  gazed  down  into 
the  carpeted  vacant  gloom ;  past  the  dim  louring  presence 
that  had  fallen  back  before  him. 

His  mouth  opened.     'Who's  there  ?'  at  last  he  called. 

'Thank  God,  thank  God !'  he  heard  Mr  Bethany  mutter. 
'I  mustn't  call,  Lawford,'  came  a  hurried  whisper  as  if 
the  old  gentleman  were  pressing  his  lips  to  speak  through 
the  letter-box.  'Come  down  and  open  the  door;  there's 
a  good  fellow !  I've  been  knocking  no  end  of  a  time.' 

'Yes,  I  am  coming,'  said  Lawford.  He  shut  his  mouth 
and  held  his  breath,  and  stair  by  stair  he  descended,  driv- 
ing steadily  before  him  the  crouching,  gloating  menac- 
ing shape,  darkly  lifted  up  before  him  against  the  dark- 
ness, contending  the  way  with  him. 

'Are  you  ill  ?  Are  you  hurt  ?  Has  anything  happened, 
Lawford?'  came  the  anxious  old  voice  again,  striving  in 
vain  to  be  restrained. 

'No,  no,'  muttered  Lawford.  'I  am  coming;  coming 
slowly.'  He  paused  to  breathe,  his  hands  trembling,  his 
hair  lank  with  sweat,  and  still  with  eyes  wide  open  he 
descended  against  the  phantom  lurking  in  the  darkness — 
an  adversary  that,  if  he  should  but  for  one  moment  close 
his  lids,  he  felt  would  master  sanity  and  imagination  with 
its  evil.  'So  long  as  you  don't  get  in,'  he  heard  him- 
self muttering,  'so  long  as  you  don't  get  in,  my  friend!' 

'What's  that  you're  saying?'  came  up  the  muffled,  quer- 
ulous voice;  'I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  hear,  my  boy.' 

'Nothing,  nothing,'  came  softly  the  answer  from  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.  'I  was  only  speaking  to  myself.' 

Deliberately,  with  candle  held  rigidly  on  a  level  with  his 
eyes,  Lawford  pushed  forward  a  pace  or  two  into  the 

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The  Return 

airless,  empty  drawing-room,  and  grasped  the  handle  of 
the  door.  He  gazed  in  awhile,  a  black  oblique  shadow 
flung  across  his  face,  his  eyes  fixed  like  an  animal's,  then 
drew  the  door  steadily  towards  him.  And  suddenly  some 
power  that  had  held  him  tense  seemed  to  fail.  He  thrust 
out  his  head,  and,  his  face  quivering  with  fear  and  loath- 
ing, spat  defiance  as  if  in  a  passion  of  triumph  into  the 
gloom. 

Still  muttering,  he  shut  the  door  and  turned  the  key. 
In  another  moment  his  light  was  gleaming  out  on  the 
grey  perturbed  face  and  black  narrow  shoulders  of  his 
visitor. 

'You  gave  me  quite  a  fright,'  said  the  old  man  almost 
angrily;  'have  you  hurt  your  foot,  or  something?' 

'It  was  very  dark,'  said  Law  ford,  'down  the  stairs.' 

'What!'  said  Mr  Bethany  still  more  angrily,  blinking 
out  of  his  unspectacled  eyes;  'has  she  cut  off  the  gas, 
then?' 

'You  got  the  note?'  said  Lawford,  unmoved. 

'Yes,  yes;  I  got  the  note.  .  .  .  Gone?' 

'Oh,  yes;  all  gone.  It  was  my  choice.  I  preferred  it 
so.' 

Mr  Bethany  sat  down  on  one  of  the  hard  old  wooden 
chairs  that  stood  on  either  side  of  the  lofty  hall,  and  breath- 
ing rather  thickly,  rested  his  hands  on  his  knees.  'What's 
happened?'  he  inquired,  looking  up  into  the  candle.  'I 
forgot  my  glasses,  old  fool  that  I  am,  and  can't,  my  dear 
fellow,  see  you  very  plainly.  But  your  voice ' 

'I  think,'  said  Lawford,  'I  think  it's  beginning  to  come 
back.' 

'What,  the  whole  thing !    Oh  no,  my  dear,  dear  man ;  be 
frank  with  me ;  not  the  whole  thing  ?' 
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The  Return 

'Yes,'  said  Law  ford,  'the  whole  thing — very,  very  grad- 
ually, imperceptibly.  I  think  even  Sheila  noticed.  But 
I  rather  feel  it  than  see  it;  that  is  all.  .  .  .  I'm  corner- 
ing him.' 

'Him?' 

Lawford  jerked  his  candle  as  if  towards  some  definite 
goal.  'In  time,'  he  said. 

The  two  faces  with  the  candle  between  them  seemed 
as  it  were  to  gain  light  each  from  the  other. 

'Well,  well,'  said  Mr  Bethany,  'every  man  for  himself, 
Lawford ;  it's  the  only  way.  But  what's  going  to  be  done  ? 
We  must  be  cautious ;  must  think  of — of  the  others  ?' 

'Oh,  that,'  said  Lawford;  'she's  going  to  squeeze  me 
out/ 

'You've  squabbled?  Oh,  but  my  dear,  honest  old, 
honest  old  idiot,  there  are  scores  of  families  here  in  this 
parish,  within  a  stone's  throw,  that  squabble,  wrangle,  all 
but  politely  tear  each  other's  eyes  out,  every  day  of  their 
earthly  lives.  It's  perfectly  natural.  Where  should  we 
poor  old  busybodies  be  else.  Peace  on  earth  we  bring, 
and  it's  mainly  between  husband  and  wife.' 

'Yes,'  said  Lawford,  'but  you  see,  this  was  not  our 
earthly  life.  It  was  between  us' 

'Listen,  listen  to  the  dear  mystic!'  exclaimed  the  old 
creature  scoffingly.  'What  depths  we're  touching.  Here's 
the  first  serious  break  of  his  lifetime,  and  he's  gone  stark 
staring  transcendental.  Ah  well.'  He  paused  and 
glanced  quickly  about  him,  with  his  curious  bird-like  poise 
of  head.  'But  you're  not  alone  here?'  he  inquired  sud- 
denly; 'not  absolutely  alone?' 

'Yes/  said  Lawford.  'But  there's  plenty  to  think  about 
— and  read.  I  haven't  thought  or  read  for  years/ 

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'No,  nor  I;  after  thirty,  my  dear  boy,  one  merely  an- 
notates, and  the  book's  called  Life.  Bless  me,  his  solemn 
old  voice  is  grinding  epigrams  out  of  even  this  poor  old 
parochial  barrel-organ.  You  don't  suppose,  you  cannot 
be  supposing  you  are  the  only  serious  person  in  the  world  ? 
What's  more,  it's  only  skin  deep.' 

Lawford  smiled.  'Skin  deep.  But  think  quietly  over 
it;  you'll  see  I'm  done.' 

'Come  here,'  said  Mr  Bethany.  'Where's  the  whiskey, 
where's  the  cigars?  You  shall  smoke  and  drink,  and  I'll 
watch.  If  it  weren't  for  a  pitiful  old  stomach,  I'd  join 
you.  Come  on!'  He  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room. 

He  looked  sparer,  more  wizened  and  sinewy  than  ever 
as  he  stooped  to  open  the  sideboard.  'Where  on  earth  do 
they  keep  everything?'  he  was  muttering  to  himself. 

Lawford  put  the  candlestick  down  on  the  table. 
'There's  only  one  thing,'  he  said,  watching  his  visitor's 
rummaging ;  'what  precisely  do  you  think  they  will  do  with 
me?' 

'Look  here,  Lawford,'  snapped  Mr  Bethany ;  'I've  come 
round  here,  hooting  through  your  letter-box,  to  talk  sense, 
not  sentiment.  Why  has  your  wife  deserted  you?  With- 
out a  servant,  without  a  single It's  perfectly  mon- 
strous.' 

'On  my  word  of  honour,  I  prefer  it  so.  I  couldn't  have 
gone  on.  Alone  I  all  but  forget  this- — this  lupus.  Every 
turn  of  her  little  finger  reminded  me  of  it.  We  are  all  of 
us  alone,  whether  we  know  it  or  not ;  you  said  so  yourself. 
And  it's  better  to  realize  it  stark  and  unconfused.  Be- 
sides, you  have  no  idea  what — what  odd  things  .  .  . 
There  may  be ;  there  is  something  on  the  other  side.  I'll 
win  through  to  that.' 
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Mr  Bethany  had  been  listening  attentively.  He  scram- 
bled up  from  his  knees  with  a  half -empty  syphon  of  soda- 
water.  'See  here,  Lawf  ord,'  he  said ;  'if  you  really  want 
to  know  what's  your  most  insidious  and  most  dangerous 
symptom  just  now,  it  is  spiritual  pride.  You've  won 
what  you  think  a  domestic  victory;  and  you  can  scarcely 
bear  the  splendour.  Oh,  you  may  shrug !  Pray,  what  is 
this  "other  side"  which  the  superior  double-faced  crea- 
ture's going  to  win  through  to  now?'  He  rapped  it  out 
almost  bitterly,  almost  contemptuously. 

Lawford  hardly  heard  the  question.  Before  his  eyes 
had  suddenly  arisen  the  peace,  the  friendly  unques- 
tioning stillness,  the  thunderous  lullaby  old  as  the  grave. 
'It's  only  a  fancy.  It  seemed  I  could  begin  again.' 

'Well,  look  here,'  said  Mr  Bethany,  his  whole  face  sud- 
denly lined  and  grey  with  age.  'You  can't.  It's  the  one 
solitary  thing  I've  got  to  say,  as  I've  said  it  to  myself 
morn,  noon,  and  night  these  scores  of  years.  You  can't 
begin  again;  it's  all  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  You  say 
we're  alone.  So  we  are.  The  world's  a  dream,  a  stage, 
a  mirage,  a  rack,  call  it  what  you  will — but  you  don't 
change,  you're  no  illusion.  There's  no  crying  off  for  you 
no  ravelling  out,  no  clean  leaves.  You've  got  this — this 
trouble,  this  affliction — my  dear,  dear  fellow  what  shall 

I  say  to  tell  you  how  I  grieve  and  groan  for  you oh 

yes,  and  actually  laughed,  I  confess  it,  a  vile  hysterical 
laughter,  to  think  of  it.  You've  got  this  almost  intolerable 
burden  to  bear;  it's  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night;  but 
bear  it  you  must,  and  alone!  They  say  death's  a  going 
to  bed;  I  doubt  it;  but  anyhow  life's  a  long  undressing. 
We  came  in  puling  and  naked,  and  every  stitch  must 
come  off  before  we  get  out  again.  We  must  stand  on  our 

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feet  in  all  our  Rabelaisian  nakedness,  and  watch  the 
world  fade.  Well  then,  and  not  another  word  of  sense 
shall  you  worm  out  of  my  worn-out  old  brains  after  to- 
day— all  I  say  is,  don't  give  in !  Why,  if  you  stood  here 
now,  freed  from  this  devilish  disguise,  the  old,  fat,  slug- 
gish fellow  that  sat  and  yawned  his  head  off  under  my 
eyes  in  his  pew  the  Sunday  before  last,  if  I  know  anything 
about  human  nature  I'd  say  it  to  your  face,  and  a  fig  for 
your  vanity  and  resignation — your  last  state  would  be 
worse  than  the  first.  There !' 

He  bunched  up  a  big  white  handkerchief  and  mopped  it 
over  his  head.  'That's  done,'  he  said,  'and  we  won't  go 
back.  What  I  want  to  know  now  is  what  are  you  going 
to  do  ?  Where  are  you  sleeping  ?  What  are  you  going  to 
think  about?  I'll  stay — yes,  yes,  that's  what  it  must  be: 
I  must  stay.  And  I  detest  strange  beds.  I'll  stay,  you 
sha'n't  be  alone.  Do  you  hear  me,  Lawford? — you  sha'n't 
be  alone!' 

Lawford  gazed  gravely.  'There  is  just  one  little  thing 
I  want  to  ask  you  before  you  go.  I've  wormed  out  an 
extraordinary  old  French  book;  and — just  as  you  say — 
to  pass  the  time,  I've  been  having  a  shot  at  translating  it. 
But  I'm  frightfully  rusty;  it's  old  French;  would  you 
mind  having  a  look?' 

Mr  Bethany  blinked  and  listened.  He  tried  for  the 
twentieth  time  to  dodge  his  friend's  eyes,  to  gain  as  best 
he  could  some  sustained  and  unobserved  glance  at  this 
baffling  face.  'Where  is  your  precious  French  book?'  he 
said  irritably. 

'It's  upstairs.' 

'Fire  away,  then !'  Lawford  rose  and  glanced  about  the 
room.  'What,  no  light  there  either?'  snapped  Mr  Beth- 
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any.    'Take  this;  /  don't  mind  the  dark.    There'll  be 
plenty  of  that  for  me  soon.' 

Law  ford  hesitated  at  the  door,  looking  rather  strangely 
back.  'No/  he  said,  'there  are  matches  upstairs.'  He 
shut  the  door  after  him.  The  darkness  seemed  cold  and 
still  as  water.  He  went  slowly  up,  with  eyes  fixed  wide 
on  the  floating  luminous  gloom,  and  out  of  memory  seemed 
to  gather,  as  faintly  as  in  the  darkness  which  they  had 
exorcised  for  him,  the  strange  pitiful  eyes  of  the  night 
before.  And  as  he  mounted  a  chill,  terrible,  physical  peace 
seemed  to  steal  over  him. 

Mr  Bethany  was  sitting  as  he  had  left  him,  looking 
steadily  on  the  floor,  when  Law  ford  returned.  He  flat- 
tened out  the  book  on  the  table  with  a  sniff  of  impatience. 
And  dragging  the  candle  nearer,  and  stooping  his  nose 
close  to  the  fusty  print,  he  began  to  read. 

'Was  this  in  the  house?'  he  inquired  presently. 

'No,'  said  Lawford;  'it  was  lent  to  me  by  a  friend — 
Herbert.' 

'H'm!  don't  know  him.  Anyhow,  precious  poor  stuff 
this  is.  This  Sabathier,  whoever  he  is,  seems  to  be  a  kind 
of  clap-trap  eighteenth-century  adventurer  who  thought 
the  world  would  be  better  off,  apparently,  for  a  long  ac- 
count of  all  his  sentimental  amours.  Rousseau,  with  a 
touch  of  Don  Quixote  in  his  composition,  and  an  echo 
of  that  prince  of  bogies,  Poe !  What,  in  the  name  of  won- 
der, induced  you  to  fix  on  this  for  your  holiday  reading  ?' 

' Sabathier 's  alive,  isn't  he?' 

'I  never  said  he  wasn't.  He's  a  good  deal  too  much 
alive  for  my  old  wits,  with  his  Mam'selle  This  and  Ma- 
dame the  Other ;  interesting  enough,  perhaps,  for  the  pro- 
fessional literary  nose  with  a  taste  for  patchouli/ 

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'Yet  I  suppose  even  that  is  not  a  very  rare  character?' 

Mr  Bethany  peered  up  from  the  dingy  book  at  his  in- 
genuous questioner.  'I  should  say  decidedly  that  the  fel- 
low was  a  very  rare  character,  so  long  as  by  rare  you 
don't  mean  good.  It's  one  of  the  dullest  stupidities  of  the 
present  day,  my  dear  fellow,  to  dote  on  a  man  simply  be- 
cause he's  different  from  the  rest  of  us.  Once  a  man 
strays  out  of  the  common  herd,  he's  more  likely  to  meet 
wolves  in  the  thickets  than  angels.  From  what  I  can 
gather  in  just  these  few  pages  this  Sabathier  appears  to 
have  been  an  amorous,  adventurous,  emotional  French- 
man, who  went  to  the  dogs  as  easily  and  as  rapidly  as  his 
own  nature  and  his  period  allowed.  And  I  should  say, 
Lawford,  that  he  made  precious  bad  reading  for  a  poor 
old  troubled  hermit  like  yourself  at  the  present  moment.' 

'There's  a  portrait  of  him  a  few  pages  back.' 

Mr  Bethany,  with  some  little  impatience,  turned  back 
to  the  engraving.  '  "Nicholas  de  Sabathier,"  he  muttered. 
'  "De,"  indeed !'  He  poked  in  at  the  foxy  print  with 
narrowed  eyes.  'I  don't  deny  it's  a  striking,  even  perhaps, 
a  rather  taking  face.  I  don't  deny  it.'  He  gazed  on  with 
an  even  more  acute  concentration,  and  looked  up  sharply. 
'Look  here,  Lawford,  what  in  the  name  of  wonder — what 
trick  are  you  playing  on  me  now  ?' 

'Trick?'  said  Lawford;  and  the  world  fell  with  the 
tiniest  plash  in  the  silence,  like  a  vivid  little  float  upon  the 
surface  of  a  shadowy  pool. 

The  old  face  flushed.  'What  conceivable  bearing,  I 
say,  has  this  dead  and  gone  old  roue  on  us  now  ?' 

'You  don't  think,  then,  you  see  any  resemblance — any 
resemblance  at  all?' 

'Resemblance?'  repeated  Mr  Bethany  in  a  flat  voice, 


The  Return 

and  without  raising  his  face  again  to  meet  Lawford's  di- 
rect scrutiny.  'Resemblance  to  whom?' 

'To  me?    To  me,  as  I  am?' 

'But  even,  my  dear  fellow  (forgive  my  dull  old  brains !), 
even  if  there  was  just  the  faintest  superficial  suggestion 
of — of  that ;  what  then  ?' 

'Why,'  said  Lawford,  'he's  buried  in  Widderstone.' 

'Buried  in  Widderstone  ?'  The  keen  childlike  blue  eyes 
looked  almost  stealthily  up  across  the  book;  the  old  man 
sat  without  speaking,  so  still  that  it  might  even  be  sup- 
posed he  himself  was  listening  for  a  quiet  distant  footfall. 

'He  is  buried  in  the  grave  beside  which  I  fell  asleep,' 
said  Lawford;  'all  green  and  still  and  broken,'  he  added 
faintly.  'You  remember,'  he  went  on  in  a  repressed  voice 
— '  you  remember  you  asked  me  if  there  was  anybody  else 
in  sight,  any  eavesdropper?  You  don't  think — him?' 

Mr.  Bethany  pushed  the  book  a  few  inches  away  from 
him.  'Who,  did  you  say — who  was  it  you  said  put  the 
thing  into  your  head  ?  A  queer  friend  surely  ?'  he  paused 
helplessly.  'And  how,  pray,  do  you  know,'  he  began  again 
more  firmly,  'even  if  there  is  a  Sabathier  buried  at  Wid- 
derstone, how  do  you  know  it  is  this  Sabathier?  It's 
not,  I  think,'  he  added  boldly,  'a  very  uncommon  name; 
with  two  b's  at  any  rate.  Whereabouts  is  the  grave  ?' 

'Quite  down  at  the  bottom,  under  the  trees.  And  the 
little  seat  I  told  you  of  is  there,  too,  where  I  fell  asleep. 
You  see,'  he  explained,  'the  grave's  almost  isolated;  I 
suppose  because  he  killed  himself.' 

Mr  Bethany  clasped  his  knuckled  fingers  on  the  table- 
cloth. 'It's  no  good,'  he  concluded  after  a  long  pause; 
'the  fellow's  got  up  into  my  head.  I  can't  think  him  out. 
We  must  thrash  it  out  quietly  in  the  morning  with  the 

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blessed  sun  at  the  window ;  not  this  farthing  dip.  To  me 
the  whole  idea  is  as  revolting  as  it  is  incredible.  Why, 
above  a  century — no,  no!  And  on  the  other  hand,  how 
easily  one's  fancy  builds!  A  few  straws  and  there's  a 
nest  and  squawking  fledglings,  all  complete.  Is  that  why 
— is  that  why  that  good,  practical  wife  of  yours  and  all 
your  faithful  household  have  absconded?  Does  it' — he 
threw  up  his  head  as  if  towards  the  house  above  them — 
'does  it  reek  with  him?' 

Lawford  shook  his  head.  'She  hasn't  seen  him:  not 
— not  apart.  I  haven't  told  her.' 

Mr  Bethany  tossed  the  hugger-mugger  of  pamphlets 
across  the  table.  'Then,  for  simple  sanity's  sake,  don't. 
Hide  it;  burn  it;  put  the  thing  completely  out  of  your 
mind.  A  friend!  Who,  where  is  this  wonderful  friend?' 

'Not  very  far  from  Widderstone.  He  lives — prac- 
tically alone.' 

'And  all  that  stumbling  and  muttering  on  the  stairs?' 
he  leant  forward  almost  threateningly.  'There  isn't  any- 
body here,  Lawford?' 

'Oh,  no,'  said  Lawford.  'We  are  practically  alone — 
with  this,  you  know,'  he  pointed  to  the  book,  and  smiled 
frankly,  however  faintly. 

Again  Mr  Bethany  sank  into  a  fixed  yet  uneasy  reverie, 
and  again  shook  himself  and  raised  his  eyes. 

'Well  then,'  he  said,  in  a  voice  all  but  morose  in  its 
fretfullness,  'what  I  suggest  is  that  first  you  keep  quiet 
here;  and  next,  that  you  write  and  get  your  wife  back. 
You  say  you  are  better.  I  think  you  said  she  herself 
noticed  a  slight  improvement.  Isn't  it  just  exactly  as  I 
foresaw  ?  And  yet  she's  gone !  But  that's  not  our  busi- 
ness. Get  her  back.  And  don't  for  a  single  instant  waste 
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a  thought  on  the  other ;  not  for  a  single  instant,  I  implore 
you,  Law  ford.  And  in  a  week  the  whole  thing  will  be  no 
more  than  a  dreary,  preposterous  dream.  .  .  .  You  don't 
answer  me !'  he  cried  impulsively. 

'But  can  one  so  easily  forget  a  dream  like  this  ?' 

'You  don't  speak  out,  Lawford;  you  mean  she  won't. 

'It  must  at  least  seem  to  have  been  in  part  of  my  own 
seeking,  or  contriving ;  or  at  any  rate — she  said  it — of  my 
own  hereditary  or  unconscious  deserving.' 

'She  said  that!'  Mr  Bethany  sat  back.  'I  see,  I  see,' 
he  said.  Tm  nothing  but  a  fumbling  old  meddler.  And 
there  was  I,  not  ten  minutes  ago,  preaching  for  all  I  was 
worth  on  a  text  I  knew  nothing  about.  God  bless  me, 
Lawford,  how  long  we  take  a-learning.  I'll  say  no  more. 
But  what  an  illusion.  To  think  this — this' — he  laid  a  long 
lean  hand  at  arm's  length  flat  upon  the  table  towards  his 
friend — 'to  think  this  is  our  old  jog-trot  Arthur  Lawford ! 
From  henceforth  I  throw  you  over,  you  old  wolf  in  sheep's 
wool.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  And  now  where  am  I 
going  to  sleep?' 

He  covered  up  his  age  and  weariness  for  an  instant 
with  a  small  crooked  hand. 

Lawford  took  a  deep  breath.  'You're  going,  old  friend, 
to  sleep  at  home.  And  I — I'm  going  to  give  you  my  arm 
to  the  Vicarage  gate.  Here  I  am,  immeasurably  relieved, 
fitter  than  I've  been  since  I  was  a  dolt  of  a  schoolboy. 
On  my  word  of  honour :  I  can't  say  why,  but  I  am.  I 
don't  care  that,  vicar,  honestly- — puffed  up  with  spiritual 
pride.  If  a  man  can't  sleep  with  pride  for  a  bed-fellow, 
well,  he'd  better  try  elsewhere.  It's  no  good;  I'm  as 
stubborn  as  a  mule;  that's  at  least  a  relic  of  the  old 
Adam.  I  care  no  more,'  he  raised  his  voice  firmly 

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and  gravely — 'I  don't  care  a  jot  for  solitude,  not  a  jot  for 
all  the  ghosts  of  all  the  catacombs !' 

Mr.  Bethany  listened,  grimly  pursed  up  his  lips.  'Not 
a  jot  for  all  the  ghosts  of  all  the  catechisms !'  he  muttered. 
'Nor  the  devil  himself,  I  suppose  ?'  He  turned  once  more 
to  glance  sharply  in  the  direction  of  the  face  he  could  so 
dimly — and  of  set  purpose — discern ;  and  without  a  word 
trotted  off  into  the  hall.  Lawford  followed  with  the 
candle. 

'  'Pon  my  word,  you  haven't  had  a  mouthful  of  supper, 
Let  me  forage;  just  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  eh?' 

'Not  me,'  said  Mr  Bethany;  'if  you  won't  have  me, 
home  I  go.  I  refuse  to  encourage  this  miserable  grass- 
widowering.  What  would  they  say?  What  would  the 
busybodies  say?  Ghouls  and  graves  and  shocking  mys- 
teries— Selina !  Sister  Anne !  Come  on." 

He  shuffled  on  his  hat  and  caught  firm  hold  of  his 
knobbed  umbrella.  'Better  not  leave  a  candle,'  he  said. 

Lawford  blew  out  the  candle. 

'What?  What?'  called  the  old  man  suddenly.  But  no 
voice  had  spoken. 

A  thin  trickle  of  light  from  the  lamp  in  the  street 
stuck  up  through  the  fanlight  as,  with  a  smile  that  could 
be  described  neither  as  mischievous,  saturnine,  nor  vindic- 
tive, and  was  yet  faintly  suggestive  of  all  three,  Lawford 
quietly  opened  the  drawing-room  door  and  put  down  the 
candlestick  on  the  floor  within. 

'What  on  earth,  my  good  man,  are  you  fumbling  after 
now?"  came  the  almost  fretful  question  from  under  the 
echoing  porch. 

'Coming,  coming,'  said  Lawford,  and  slammed  the  door 
behind  them. 
178 


Chapter  Sixteen 


THE  first  faint  streaks  of  dawn  were  silvering 
across  the  stars  when  Law  ford  again  let  himself 
into  his  deserted  house.  He  stumbled  down 
to  the  pantry  and  cut  himself  a  crust  of  bread  and 
cheese,  and  ate  it,  sitting  on  the  table,  watching  the 
leafy  eastern  sky  through  the  painted  bars  of  the 
area  window.  He  munched  on,  hungry  and  tired. 
His  night  walk  had  cooled  head  and  heart.  Having  ob- 
stinately refused  Mr  Bethany's  invitation  to  sleep  at  the 
Vicarage,  he  had  sat  down  on  an  old  low  wall,  and 
watched  until  his  light  had  shone  out  at  his  bedroom  win- 
dow. Then  he  had  simply  wandered  on,  past  rustling 
glimmering  gardens,  under  the  great  timbers  of  yellowing 
elms,  hardly  thinking,  hardly  aware  of  himself  except  as 
in  a  far-away  vision  of  a  sluggish  insignificant  creature 
struggling  across  the  tossed-up  crust  of  an  old,  incompre- 
hensible world. 

The  secret  o>f  his  content  in  that  long  leisurely  ramble 
had  been  that  repeatedly  by  a  scarcely  realised  effort  it 
had  not  lain  in  the  direction  of  Widderstone.  And  now, 
as  he  sat  hungrily  devouring  his  breakfast  on  the  table 
in  the  kitchen,  with  the  daybreak  comforting  his  eyes,  he 
thought  with  a  positive  mockery  of  that  poor  old  night- 
thing  he  had  given  inch  by  inch  into  the  safe  keeping  of  his 
pink  and  white  drawing-room.  Don  Quixote,  Poe, 
Rousseau — they  were  familiar  but  not  very  significant 
labels  to  a  mind  that  had  found  very  poor  entertainment  in 
reading.  But  they  were  at  least  representative  enough  to 

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The  Return 

set  him  wondering  which  of  their  influences  it  was  that 
had  inflated  with  such  a  gaseous  heroism  the  Law  ford  of 
the  night  before.  He  thought  of  Sheila  with  a  not  un- 
kindly smile,  and  of  the  rest.  'I  wonder  what  they'll  do  ?' 
had  been  a  question  almost  as  much  in  his  mind  during 
these  last  few  hours  as  had  'What  am  I  to  do  ?'  in  the  first 
bout  of  his  'visitation/ 

But  the  'they'  was  not  very  precisely  visualised.  He 
saw  Sheila,  and  Harry,  and  dainty  pale-blue  Bettie  Lovat, 
and  cautious  old  Wedderburn,  and  Danton,  and  Craik,  and 
cheery,  gossipy  Dr  Sutherland,  and  the  verger,  Mr  Button, 
and  Critchett,  and  the  gardener,  and  Ada,  and  the  whole 
vague  populous  host  that  keep  one  as  definitely  in  one's 
place  in  the  world's  economy  as  a  firm-set  pin  the  cam- 
phored  moth.  What  his  place  was  to  be  only  time  could 
show.  Meanwhile  there  was  in  this  loneliness  at  least  a 
respite. 

Solitude  !• — he  bathed  his  weary  bones  in  it.  He  laved 
his  eyelids  in  it,  as  in  a  woodland  brook  after  the  heat 
of  noon.  He  sat  on  in  calmest  reverie  till  his  hunger  was 
satisfied.  Then,  scattering  out  his  last  crumbs  to  the 
birds  from  the  barred  window,  he  climbed  upstairs  again, 
past  his  usual  bedroom,  past  his  detested  guest  room,  up 
into  the  narrow  sweetness  of  Alice's,  and  flinging  himself 
on  her  bed  fell  into  a  long  and  dreamless  sleep. 

By  ten  next  morning  Lawf  ord  had  bathed  and  dressed. 
And  at  half-past  ten  he  got  up  from  Sheila's  fat  little 
French  dictionary  and  his  Memoirs  to  answer  Mrs  Gull's 
summons  on  the  area  bell.  The  little  woman  stood  with 
arms  folded  over  an  empty  and  capacious  bag,  with  an  air 
of  sustained  melancholy  on  her  friendly  face.  She  wished 
him  a  very  nervous  'Good  morning/  and  dived  down  into 
180 


The  Return 

the  kitchen.  The  hours  dragged  slowly  by  in  a  silence 
broken  only  by  an  occasional  ring  at  the  bell.  About 
three  she  emerged  from  the  house  and  climbed  the  area 
steps  with  her  bag  hooked  over  her  arm.  He  watched  the 
little  black  figure  out  of  sight,  watched  a  man  in  a  white 
canvas  hat  ascend  the  steps  to  push  a  blue-printed  cir- 
cular through  the  letter-box.  It  had  begun  to  rain  a  little. 
He  returned  to  the  breakfast-room  and  with  the  window 
wide  open  to  the  rustling  coolness  of  the  leaves,  edged 
his  way  very  slowly  across  from  line  to  line  of  the  obscure 
French  print. 

Sabathier  none  the  less,  and  in  spite  of  his  unintelligible 
literariness,  did  begin  to  take  shape  and  consistency.  The 
man  himself,  breathing,  and  thinking,  began  to  live  for 
Lawford  even  in  those  few  half-articulate  pages,  though 
not  in  quite  so  formidable  a  fashion  as  Mr  Bethany  had 
summed  him  up.  But  as  the  west  began  to  lighten  with 
the  declining  sun,  the  same  old  disquietude,  the  same  old 
friendless  and  foreboding  ennui  stole  over  Law  ford's 
solitude  once  more.  He  shut  his  books,  placed  a  candle- 
stick and  two  boxes  of  matches  on  the  hall  table,  lit  a  bead 
of  gas,  and  went  out  into  the  rainy-sweet  streets  again. 

At  a  mean  little  barber's  with  a  pole  above  his  lettered 
door  he  went  in  to  be  shaved.  And  a  few  steps  further 
on  he  sat  down  at  the  crumb-littered  counter  of  a  little 
baker's  shop  to  have  some  tea.  It  pleased  him  almost  to 
childishness  to  find  how  easily  he  could  listen  and  even 
talk  to  the  oiled  and  crimpy  little  barber,  and  to  the  pretty, 
consumptive-looking,  print-dressed  baker's  wife.  What- 
ever his  face  might  now  be  conniving  at,  the  Arthur 
Lawford  of  last  week  could  never  have  hob-nobbed  so 
affably  with  his  social  'inferiors.' 

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The  Return 

For  no  reason  in  the  world,  unless  to  spend  a  moment 
or  two  longer  in  the  friendly  baker's  shop,  he  bought 
six-penny-worth  of  cakes.  He  watched  them  as 
they  were  deposited  one  by  one  in  the  bag,  and  even 
asked  for  one  sort  to  be  exchanged  for  another,  flush- 
ing a  little  at  the  pretty  compliment  he  had  ventured 
on. 

He  climbed  out  of  the  shop,  and  paused  on  the  wooden 
doorstep.  'Do  you  happen  to  know  Mr  Herbert  Her- 
bert's ?'  he  said. 

The  baker's  wife  glanced  up  at  him  with  clear,  re- 
flective eyes.  'Mr  Herbert's? — that  must  be  some  little 
way  off,  sir.  I  don't  know  any  such  name,  and  I  know 
most,  just  round  about  like.' 

'Well,  yes,  it  is/  said  Lawford,  rather  foolishly;  'I 
Hardly  know  why  I  asked.  It's  past  the  churchyard  at 
Widderstone.' 

'Oh  yes,  sir/  she  encouraged  him. 

'A  big,  wooden-looking  house.' 

'Really,  sir.     Wooden?' 

Lawford  looked  into  her  face,  but  could  find  nothing 
more  to  say,  so  he  smiled  again  rather  absently,  and  as- 
cended into  the  street. 

He  sat  down  outside  the  churchyard  gate  on  the  very 
bank  where  he  had  in  the  sourness  of  the  nettles  first 
opened  Sabathier's  Memoirs.  The  world  lay  still  be- 
neath the  pale  sky.  Presently  the  little  fat  rector  walked 
up  the  hill,  his  wrists  still  showing  beneath  his  sleeves. 
Lawford  meditatively  watched  him  pass  by.  A  small 
boy  with  a  switch,  a  tiny  nose,  and  a  swinging  gallipot,  his 
cheeks  lit  with  the  sunset,  followed  soon  after.  Lawford 
beckoned  him  with  his  finger  and  held  out  the  bag  of  tarts. 
182 


The  Return 

He  watched  him,  half  incredulous  of  his  prize,  and  with 
many  a  cautious  look  over  his  shoulder,  pass  out  of  sight. 
For  a  long  while  he  sat  alone,  only  the  evening  birds  sing- 
ing out  of  the  greenness  and  silence  of'  the  churchyard. 
What  a  haunting  inescapable  riddle  life  was. 

Colour  suddenly  faded  out  of  the  light  streaming  be- 
tween the  branches.  And  depression,  always  lying  in  am- 
bush of  the  novelty  of  his  freedom,  began  like  mist  to  rise 
above  his  restless  thoughts.  It  was  all  so  devilish  empty 
— this  raft  of  the  world  floating  under  evening's  shadow. 
How  many  sermons  had  he  listened  to,  enriched  with  the 
simile  of  the  ocean  of  life.  Here  they  were,  come  home 
to  roost.  He  had  fallen  asleep,  ineffectual  sailor  that 
he  was,  and  a  thief  out  of  the  cloudy  deep  had  stolen  oar 
and  sail  and  compass,  leaving  him  adrift  amid  the  riding 
of  the  waves. 

'Are  they  worth,  do  you  think,  quite  a  penny  ?'  suddenly 
inquired  a  quiet  voice  in  the  silence.  He  looked  up  into 
the  almost  colourless  face,  into  the  grey  eyes  beneath  their 
clear  narrow  brows. 

'I  was  thinking,'  he  said,  'what  a  curious  thing  life  is, 
and  wondering ' 

'The  first  half  is  well  worth  the  penny — its  originality! 
I  can't  afford  twopence.  So  you  must  give  me  what  you 
were  wondering ' 

Lawford  gazed  rather  blankly  across  the  twilight  fields. 
'I  was  wondering,'  he  said  with  an  oddly  na'ive  candour, 
'how  long  it  took  one  to  sink.' 

'They  say,  you  know,'  Grisel  replied  solemnly,  'drowned 
sailors  float  midway,  suffering  their  sea  change;  pur- 
gatory. But  what  a  splendid  pennyworth.  All  pure 
philosophy !' 

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The  Return 

'  "Philosophy !"  '  said  Lawf ord ;  'I  am  a  perfect  fool. 
Has  your  brother  told  you  about  me?' 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly.     'We  had  a  talk.' 

Then  you  do  know — - — ?'  He  stopped  dead,  and  turned 
to  her.  'You  really  realise  it,  looking  at  me  now?' 

'I  realise,'  she  said  gravely,  'that  you  look  even  a  little 
more  pale  and  haggard  than  when  I  saw  you  first  the 
other  night.  We  both,  my  brother  and  I,  you  know, 
thought  for  certain  you'd  come  yesterday.  In  fact,  I 
went  into  the  Widderstone  in  the  evening  to  look  for  you, 
knowing  your  nocturnal  habits.  .  .  .'  She  glanced  again 
at  him  with  a  kind  of  shy  anxiety. 

'Why — why  is  your  brother  so— why  does  he  let  me 
bore  him  so  horribly?' 

'Does  he  ?  He's  tremendously  interested ;  but  then,  he's 
pretty  easily  interested  when  he's  interested  at  all.  If 
he  can  possibly  twist  anything  into  the  slightest  show  of 
a  mystery,  he  will.  But,  of  course,  you  won't,  you  can't, 
take  all  he  says  seriously.  The  tiniest  pinch  of  salt,  you 
know.  He's  an  absolute  fanatic  at  talking  in  the  air.  Be- 
sides, it  doesn't  really  matter  much.' 

'In  the  air?' 

'I  mean  if  once  a  theory  gets  into  his  head — the  more 
far-fetched,  so  long  as  it's  original,  the  better — it  flowers 
out  into  a  positive  miracle  of  incredibilities.  And  of 
course  you  can  rout  out  evidence  for  anything  under  the 
sun  from  his  dingy  old  folios.  Why  did  he  lend  you  that 
particular  book?' 

'Didn't  he  tell  you  that,  then?' 

'He  said  it  was  Sabathier.'  She  seemed  to  think  in- 
tensely for  the  merest  fraction  of  a  moment,  and  turned. 
184 


The  Return 

'Honestly,  though,  I  think  he  immensely  exaggerated  the 
likeness.  As  for  .  .  .' 

He  touched  her  arm,  and  they  stopped  again,  face  to 
face.  'Tell  me  what  difference  exactly  you  see,'  he  said. 
'I  am  quite  myself  again  now,  honestly;  please  tell  me 
just  the  very  worst  you  think.' 

'I  think,  to  begin  with,'  she  began,  with  exaggerated 
candour,  'his  is  rather  a  detestable  face.' 

'And  mine  ?'  he  said  gravely. 

'Why — very  troubled;  oh  yes — but  his  was  like  some 
bird  of  prey.  Yours — what  mad  stuff  to  talk  like  this ! — 
not  the  least  symptom,  that  I  can  see,  of — why,  the  "prey," 
you  know.' 

They  had  come  to  the  wicket  in  the  dark  thorny 
hedge.  'Would  it  be  very  dreadful  to  walk  on  a  little 
— just  to  finish  ?' 

'Very,'  she  said,  turning  as  gravely  at  his  side. 

'What  I  wanted  to  say  was '  began  Law  ford,  and 

forgetting  altogether  the  thread  by  which  he  hoped  to  lead 
up  to  what  he  really  wanted  to  say,  broke  off  lamely; 
'I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  absolutely  de- 
spised a  coward.' 

'It  would  be  rather  absurd  to  despise  what  one  so 
horribly  well  understands.  Besides,  we  weren't  cowards 
— we  weren't  cowards  a  bit.  My  childhood  was  one  long, 
reiterated  terror — nights  and  nights  of  it.  But  I  never 
had  the  pluck  to  tell  any  one.  No  one  so  much  as  dreamt 
of  the  company  I  had.  Ah,  and  you  didn't  see  either 
that  my  heart  was  absolutely  in  my  mouth,  that  I  was 
shrivelled  up  with  fear,  even  at  sight  of  the  fear  on  your 
face  in  the  dark.  There's  absolutely  nothing  so  catching. 

185 


The  Return 

So,  you  see,  I  do  know  a  little  what  nerves  are;  and 
dream  too  sometimes,  though  I  don't  choose  charnel- 
houses  if  I  can  get  a  comfortable  bed.  A  coward !  May 
I  really  say  that  to  ask  my  help  was  one  of  the  bravest 
things  in  a  man  I  ever  heard  of.  Bullets — that  kind  of 
courage — no  real  woman  cares  twopence  for  bullets.  An 
old  aunt  of  mine  stared  a  man  right  out  of  the  house 
with  the  thing  in  her  face.  Anyhow,  whether  I  may  or 
not,  I  do  say  it.  So  now  we  are  quits.' 

'Will  you '  began  Law  ford,  and  stopped.  'What 

I  wanted  to  say  was/  he  jerked  on,  'it  is  sheer  horrible 
hypocrisy  to  be  talking  to  you  like  this — though 
you  will  never  have  the  faintest  idea  of  what  it  has  meant 
and  done  for  me.  I  mean  .  .  .  And  yet,  and  yet,  I  do 
feel  when  just  for  the  least  moment  I  forget  what  I 
am,  and  that  isn't  very  often,  when  I  forget  what  I  have 
become  and  what  I  must  go  back  to — I  feel  that  I  haven't 
any  business  to  be  talking  with  you  at  all.  "Quits !" 
And  here  I  am,  an  outcast  from  decent  society.  Ah,  you 
don't  know — — ' 

She  bent  her  head  and  laughed  under  her  breath.  'You 
do  really  stumble  on  such  delicious  compliments.  And 
yet,  do  you  know,  I  think  my  brother  would  be  immensely 
pleased  to  think  you  were  an  outcast  from  decent  society 
if  only  he  could  be  thought  one  too.  He  has  been  trying 
half  his  life  to  wither  decent  society  with  neglect  and 
disdain — but  it  doesn't  take  the  least  notice.  The  deaf 
adder,  you  know.  Besides,  besides ;  what  is  all  this  meek 
talk?  I  detest  meek  talk — gods  or  men.  Surely  in  the 
first  and  last  resort  all  we  are  is  ourselves.  Something 
has  happened;  you  are  jangled,  shaken.  But  to  us,  be- 
lieve me,  you  are  simply  one  of  fewer  friends — and  I 
1 86 


The  Return 

think,  after  struggling  up  Widderstone  Lane  hand  in  hand 
with  you  in  the  dark,  I  have  a  right  to  say  "friends" — 
than  I  could  count  on  one  hand.  What  are  we  all  if  we 
only  realized  it?  We  talk  of  dignity  and  propriety,  and 
we  are  like  so  many  children  playing  with  knucklebones 
in  a  giant's  scullery.  Come  along,  he  will,  some  supper- 
time,  for  us,  each  in  turn — and  how  many  even  will  so 
much  as  look  up  from  their  play  to  wave  us  good-bye? 
that's  what  I  mean — the  plot  of  silence  we  are  all  in.  If 
only  I  had  my  brother's  lucidity,  how  much  better  I  would 
have  said  all  this.  It  is  only,  believe  me,  that  I  want 
ever  so  much  to  help  you,  if  I  may — even  at  risk,  too,' 
she  added,  rather  shakily,  'of  having  that  help — well — I 
know  it's  little  good.' 

The  lane  had  narrowed.  They  had  climbed  the  arch 
of  a  narrow  stone  bridge  that  spanned  the  smooth  dark 
Widder.  A  few  late  starlings  were  winging  far  above 
them.  Darkness  was  coming  on  apace.  They  stood  for 
awhile  looking  down  into  the  black  flowing  water,  with 
here  and  there  the  mild  silver  of  a  star  dim  leagues  be- 
low. 'I  am  afraid,'  said  Grisel,  looking  quietly  up,  'you 
have  led  me  into  talking  most  pitiless  nonsense.  How 
many  hours,  I  wonder,  did  I  lie  awake  in  the  dark  last 
night,  thinking  of  you?  Honestly,  I  shall  never,  never 
forget  that  walk.  It  haunted  me,  on  and  on. 

'Thinking  of  me?  Do  you  really  mean  that?  Then  it 
was  not  all  imagination;  it  wasn't  just  the  drowning  man 
clutching  at  a  straw  ?" 

The  grey  eyes  questioned  him.  'You  see,'  he  explained 
in  a  whisper,  as  if  afraid  of  being  overheard,  'it — it  came 
back  again,  and — I  don't  mind  a  bit  how  much  you  laugh 
at  me!  I  had  been  asleep,  and  had  had  a  most  awful 

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The  Return 

dream,  one  of  those  dreams  that  seem  to  hint  that  some 
day  that  will  be  our  real  world,  that  some  day  we  may 
awake  where  dreaming  then  will  be  of  this;  and  I  woke 
— came  back — and  there  was  a  tremendous  knocking  going 
on  downstairs.  I  knew  there  was  no  one  else  in  the 
house ' 

'No  one  else  in  the  house?    And  you  like  this?' 

'Yes,'  said  Lawford,  stolidly,  'they  were  all  out  as  it 
happened.  And,  of  course,'  he  went  on  quickly,  'there 
was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  simply  to  go  down  and  open 
the  door.  And  yet,  do  you  know,  at  first  I  simply  couldn't 
move.  I  lit  a  candle,  and  then — then  somehow  I  got  to 
know  that  waiting  for  me  was  just — but  there,'  he  broke 
off  half-ashamed,  'I  mustn't  bother  you  with  all  this  mor- 
bid stuff.  Will  your  brother  be  in  now,  do  you  think?' 

'My  brother  will  be  in,  and,  of  course,  expecting  you. 
But  as  for  "bother,"  believe  me — well,  did  I  quite  de- 
serve it  ?'  She  stooped  towards  him.  'You  lit  a  candle — 
and  then?' 

They  turned  and  retraced  their  way  slowly  up  the  hill. 

'It  came  again.' 

'It?' 

'That — that  presence,  that  shadow.  I  don't  mean,  of 
course,  it's  a  real  shadow.  It  comes,  doesn't  it,  from — 
from  within?  As  if  from  out  of  some  unheard-of  hid- 
ing place,  where  it  has  been  lurking  for  ages  and  ages 
before  one's  childhood;  at  least,  so  it  seems  to  me  now. 
And  yet  although  it  does  come  from  within,  there  it  is, 
too,  in  front  of  you,  before  your  eyes,  feeding  even  on 
your  fear,  just  watching,  waiting  for What  non- 
sense all  this  must  seem  to  you !' 

'Yes,  yes ;  and  then  ?' 
188 


The  Return 

'Then,  and  you  must  remember  the  poor  old  boy  had 
been  knocking  all  this  time — my  old  friend — Mr  Bethany, 
I  mean — knocking  and  calling  through  the  letter-box, 
thinking  I  was  in  extremis,  or  something ;  then- — how  shall 
I  describe  it? — well  you  came,  your  eyes,  your  face,  as 
clear  as  when,  you  know,  the  night  before  last,  we  went 
up  the  hill  together.  And  then  .  .  .' 

'And  then?' 

'And  then,  we — you  and  I,  you  know — simply  drove 
him  downstairs,  and  I  could  hear  myself  grunting  as  if 
it  was  really  a  physical  effort ;  we  drove  him,  step  by  step, 
downstairs.  And '  He  laughed  outright,  and  boy- 
ishly continued  his  adventure.  'What  do  you  think  I  did 
then,  without  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  too,  at  the  idiocy  of  the 
thing?  I  locked  the  poor  beggar  in  the  drawing-room. 
I  saw  him  there,  as  plainly  as  I  ever  saw  anything  in  my 
life,  and  the  furniture  glimmering,  though  it  was  pitch 
dark:  I  can't  describe  it.  It  all  seemed  so  desperately 
real,  absolutely  vital  then.  It  all  seems  so  meaningless 
and  impossible  now.  And  yet,  although  I  am  utterly 
played  out  and  done  for,  and  however  absurd  it  may 
sound,  I  wouldn't  have  lost  it ;  I  wouldn't  go  back  for  any 
bribe  there  is.  I  feel  just  as  if  a  great  bundle  had  been 
rolled  off  my  back.  Of  course,  the  queerest,  the  most 
detestable  part  of  the  whole  business  is  that  it — the  thing 
on  the  stairs — was  this' — he  lifted  a  grave  and  haggard 
face  towards  her  again —  'or  rather  that,'  he  pointed  with 
his  stick  towards  the  starry  churchyard.  'Sabathier/  he 
said. 

Again  they  had  paused  together  before  the  white  gate, 
and  this  time  Law  ford  pushed  it  open,  and  followed 
his  companion  up  the  narrow  path. 

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The  Return 

She  stayed  a  moment,  her  hand  on  the  bell.  'Was  it 
my  brother  who  actually  put  that  horrible  idea  into  your 
mind  ? — about  Sabathier  ?' 

'Oh  no,  not  really  put  it  into  my  head,'  said  Lawford 
hollowly.  'He  only  found  it  there ;  lit  it  up.' 

She  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm.  'Whether  he  did 
or  not,'  she  said  with  an  earnestness  that  was  almost  an 
entreaty,  'of  course,  you  must  agree  that  we  every  one  of 
us  have  some  such  experience — that  kind  of  visitor,  once 
at  least,  in  a  lifetime.'  'Ah,  but,'  began  Lawford,  turn- 
ing forlornly  away,  'you  didn't  see,  you  can't  have  realized 
— the  change.' 

She  pulled  the  bell  almost  as  if  in  some  inward  triumph. 
'But  don't  you  think,'  she  suggested,  'that  that,  like  the 
other,  might  be,  as  it  were,  partly  imagination  too?  If 
now  you  thought  back.  .  .  .' 

But  a  little  old  woman  had  opened  the  door,  and  the 
sentence,  for  the  moment,  was  left  unfinished. 


190 


Chapter  Seventeen 


THERE  was  no  one  in  the  room,  and  no  light, 
when  they  entered.  For  a  moment  Grisel  stood 
by  the  open  window,  looking  out.  Then  she 
turned  impulsively.  'My  brother,  of  course,  will  ask  you 
too,'  she  said ;  'we  had  made  up  our  minds  to  do  so  if  you 
came  again ;  but  I  want  you  to  promise  me  now  that  you 
won't  dream  of  going  back  to-night.  That  surely  would 
be  tempting — well,  not  Providence.  I  couldn't  rest  if  I 
thought  you  might  be  alone ;  like  that  again.'  Her  voice 
died  away  into  the  calling  of  the  waters.  A  light  moved 
across  the  dingy  old  rows  of  books  and  as  his  sister  turned 
to  go  out  Herbert  appeared  in  the  doorway,  carrying  a 
green-shaded  lamp,  with  an  old  leather  quarto  under  his 
arm. 

'Ah,  here  you  are,'  he  said.  'I  guessed  you  had  prob- 
ably met.'  He  drew  up,  burdened,  before  his  visitor.  But 
his  clear  black  glance,  instead  of  wandering  off  at  his  first 
greeting,  had  intensified.  And  it  was  almost  with  an  air 
of  absorption  that  he  turned  away.  He  dumped  his  book 
on  to  a  chair  and  it  turned  over  with  scattered  leaves  on 
to  the  floor.  He  put  the  lamp  down  and  stooped  after  it, 
so  that  his  next  words  came  up  muffled,  and  as  if  the  re- 
mark had  been  forced  out  of  him.  'You  don't  feel  worse, 
I  hope  ?'  He  got  up  and  faced  his  visitor  for  the  answer. 
And  for  the  moment  Lawford  stood  considering  his 
symptoms. 

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The  Return 

'No/  he  said  almost  gaily;  'I  feel  enormously  better.' 

But  Herbert's  long,  oval,  questioning  eyes  beneath  the 
sleek  black  hair  were  still  fixed  on  his  face.  'I  am  afraid, 
my  dear  fellow,'  he  said,  with  something  more  than  his 
usual  curiously  indifferent  courtesy,  'the  struggle  has 
frightfully  pulled  you  to  pieces.' 

'The  question  is,'  answered  Lawford,  with  a  kind  of 
tired  yet  whimsical  melancholy  in  his  voice,  'though  I 
am  not  sure  that  the  answer  very  much  matters- — what's 
going  to  put  me  together  again?  It's  the  old  story  of 
Humpty  Dumpty,  Herbert.  Besides,  one  thing  you  said 
has  stuck  out  in  a  quite  curious  way  in  my  memory.  I 
wonder  if  you  will  remember?' 

'What  was  that?'  said  Herbert  with  unfeigned  curiosity. 

'Why,  you  said  even  though  Sabathier  had  failed, 
though  I  was  still  my  own  old  stodgy  self,  that  you  thought 
the  face — the  face,  you  know,  might  work  in.  Somehow, 
sometimes  I  think  it  has.  It  does  really  rather  haunt  me. 
In  that  case — well,  what  then?'  Lawford  had  himself 
listened  to  this  involved  explanation  much  as  one  watches 
the  accomplishment  of  a  difficult  trick,  marvelling  more 
at  its  completion  at  all  than  at  the  difficulty  involved  in 
the  doing  of  it. 

'  "Work  in," '  repeated  Herbert,  like  a  rather  blase 
child  confronted  with  a  new  mechanical  toy ;  'did  I  really 
say  that  ?  well,  honestly,  it  wasn't  bad ;  it's  what  one  would 
expect  on  that  hypothesis.  You  see,  we  are  only  different, 
as  it  were,  in  our  differences.  Once  the  foot's  over  the 
threshold,  it's  nine  points  of  the  law !  But  I  don't  remem- 
her  saying  it/  He  shamefacedly  and  naively  confessed 
it:  'I  say  such  an  awful  lot  of  things.  And  I'm  always 
changing  my  mind.  It's  a  standing  joke  against  me  with 
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The  Return 

my  sister.  She  says  the  recording  angel  will  have  two 
sides  to  my  account:  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Fri- 
days ;  and  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays — diametri- 
cally opposite  convictions,  and  both  kinds  wrong.  On 
Sundays  I  am  all  things  to  all  men.  As  for  Sabathier,  by 
the  way,  I  do  want  particularly  to  have  another  go  at 
him.  I've  been  thinking  him  over,  and  I'm  afraid  in 
some  ways  he  won't  quite  wash.  And  that  reminds  me, 
did  you  read  the  poor  chap?' 

'I  just  grubbed  through  a  page  or  two;  but  most  of 
my  French  was  left  at  school.  What  I  did  do,  though, 
was  to  show  the  book  to  an  old  friend  of  ours — my  wife's 
and  mine — just  to  skim — a  Mr  Bethany.  He's  an  old 
clergyman — our  vicar,  in  fact.' 

Herbert  had  sat  down,  and  with  eyes  slightly  narrowed 
was  listening  with  peculiar  attention.  He  smiled  a  little 
magnanimously.  'His  verdict,  I  should  think,  must  have 
been  a  perfect  joy.' 

'He  said,'  said  Lawford,  in  his  rather  low,  monotonous 
voice,  'he  said  it  was  precious  poor  stuff,  that  it  reminded 
him  of  patchouli;  and  that  Sabathier — the  print  I  mean 
— looked  like  a  foxy  old  roue.  They  were,  I  think,  his 
exact  words.  We  were  alone  together,  last  night.' 

'You  don't  mean  that  he  simply  didn't  see  the  faintest 
resemblance  ?' 

Lawford  nodded.  'But  then,'  he  added  simply,  'when- 
ever he  comes  to  see  me  now  he  leaves  his  spectacles  at 
home.' 

And  at  that,  as  if  at  some  preconcerted  signal,  they  both 
went  off  into  a  simple  shout  of  laughter,  unanimous 
and  sustained. 

But  this  first  wild  bout  of  laughter  over,  the  first  real 

193 


The  Return 

bursting  of  the  dam,  perhaps,  for  years,  Lawford  found 
himself  at  a  lower  ebb  than  ever. 

'You  see,'  he  said  presently,  and  while  still  his  com- 
panion's face  was  smiling  around  the  remembrance  of  his 
laughter  like  ripples  after  the  splash  of  a  stone,  'Bethany 
has  been  absolutely  my  sheet-anchor  right  through.  And 
I  was — it  was — you  can't  possibly  realise  what  a  ghastly 
change  it  really  was.  I  don't  think  any  one  ever  will.' 

Herbert  opened  his  hand  and  looked  reflectively  into  its 
palm  before  allowing  himself  to  reply.  'I  wonder,  you 
know ;  I  have  been  wondering  a  good  deal ;  simply  taking 
the  other  point  of  view  for  a  moment;  was  it?  I  don't 
mean  "ghastly"  exactly  (like,  say,  smallpox,  G.P.I.,  ele- 
phantiasis), but  was  it  quite  so  complete,  so  radical,  as  in 
the  first  sheer  gust  of  astonishment  you  fancied?' 

Lawford  thought  on  a  little  further.  'You  know  how 
one  sees  oneself  in  a  passion — why,  how  a  child  looks — • 
the  whole  face  darkened  and  drawn  and  possessed  ?  That 
was  the  change.  That's  how  it  seems  to  come  back  to 
me.  And  something,  somebody,  dodging  behind  the  eyes. 
Yes ;  more  that  than  even  any  excessive  change  of  feature, 

except,  of  course,  that  I  also  seemed Shall  I  ever 

forget  that  first  cold,  stifling  stare  into  the  looking-glass ! 
I  certainly  was  much  darker,  even  my  hair.  But  I've 
told  you  all  this  before,'  he  added  wearily,  'and  the  scores 
and  scores  of  times  I've  thought  it.  I  used  to  sit  up 
there  in  the  big  spare  bedroom  my  wife  put  me  up  in, 
simply  gloating.  My  flesh  seemed  nothing  more  than  an 
hallucination:  there  I  was,  haunting  my  body,  and  old 
grinning  tenement,  and  all  that  I  thought  I  wanted,  and 
couldn't  do  without,  all  I  valued  and  prided  myself  on — 
stacked  up  in  the  drizzling  street  below.  Why,  Herbert, 
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The  Return 

our  bodies  are  only  glass  or  cloud.  They  melt,  don't  they, 
like  wax  in  the  sun  once  we're  out.  But  those  first  few 
days  don't  make  very  pleasant  thinking.  Friday  night 
was  the  first,  when  I  sat  there  like  a  twitching  waxwork, 
soberly  debating  between  Bedlam  here  and  Bedlam  here- 
after. I  even  sometimes  wonder  whether  its  very  repe- 
tition has  not  dulled  the  memory  or  distorted  it.  My 
wife,'  he  added  ingenuously,  'seems  to  think  there  are 
signs  of  a  slight  improvement — a  going  back,  I  mean. 
But  I'm  not  sure  whether  she  meant  it.' 

Herbert  surveyed  his  visitor  critically.  'You  say 
"dark,"  he  said;  'but  surely,  Law  ford,  your  hair  now  is 
nearly  grey;  well-flecked  at  least.' 

Although  the  remark  carried  nothing  comparatively  of  a 
shock  with  it,  yet  it  seemed  to  Lawford  as  if  an  electric 
current  had  passed  over  his  scalp,  coldly  stirring  every 
hair  upon  his  head.  But  somehow  or  other  it  was  easier 
to  sit  quietly  on,  to  express  no  surprise,  to  let  them  do  or 
say  what  they  liked.  'Well'  he  retorted  with  an  odd, 
crooked  smile,  'you  must  remember  I  am  a  good  deal 
older  than  I  was  last  Saturday.  I  grew  grey  in  the  grave, 
Herbert.' 

'But  it's  like  this,  you  know,'  said  Herbert,  rising  ex- 
citedly, and  at  the  next  moment,  on  reflection,  composedly 
reseating  himself.  'How  many  of  your  people  actually 
saw  it?  How  many  owned  to  its  being  as  bad,  as  com- 
plete, as  you  made  out?  I  don't  want  for  a  moment  to 
cut  right  across  what  you  said  last  night — our  talk — but 
there  are  two  million  sides  to  every  question,  and  as  often 
as  not  the  less  conspicuous  have  sounder — well — roots. 
That's  all.' 

'I  think  really,  do  you  know,  I  would  rather  not  go  over 

195 


The  Return 

the  detestable  thing  again.  Not  many ;  my  wife,  though, 
and  a  man  I  know  called  Danton,  who — who's  prejudiced. 
After  all,  I  have  myself  to  think  about  too.  And  right 
through,  right  through — there  wasn't  the  least  doubt  of 
that — they  all  in  their  hearts  knew  it  was  me.  They  knew 
I  was  behind.  I  could  feel  that  absolutely  always;  it's 
not  just  eyes  and  ears  we  use,  there's  us  ourselves  to  con- 
sider, though  God  alone  knows  what  that  means.  But  the 
password  was  there,  as  you  might  say ;  and  they  all  knew  I 
knew  it,  all — except' — he  looked  up  as  if  in  bewilderment 
• — 'except  just  one,  a  poor  old  lady,  a  very  old  friend  of 
my  mother's,  whom  I — I  Sabathiered !' 

'Whom — you — Sabathiered!'  repeated  Herbert  care- 
fully, with  infinite  relish,  looking  sidelong  at  his  visitor. 
'And  it  is  just  precisely  that  .  .  .' 

But  at  that  moment  his  sister  appeared  in  the  doorway 
to  say  that  supper  was  ready.  And  it  was  not  until  Her- 
bert was  actually  engaged  in  carving  a  cold  chicken  that  he 
followed  up  his  advantage.  'Mr.  Lawford,  Grisel,'  he 
said,  'has  just  enriched  our  jaded  language  with  a  new 
verb — to  Sabathier.  And  if  I  may  venture  to  define  it  in 
the  presence  of  the  distinguished  neologist  himself,  it 
means,  "To  deal  with  histrionically";  or,  rather,  that's 
what  it  will  mean  a  couple  of  hundred  years  hence.  For 
the  moment  it  means,  "To  act  under  the  influence  of  sub- 
liminalization' ;  "To  perplex,  or  bemuse,  or  estrange  with 
otherness."  Do  tell  us,  Lawford,  more  about  the  little 
old  lady.'  He  passed  with  her  plate  a  little  meaningful 
glance  at  his  sister,  and  repeated,  'Do!' 

'But  I've  been  plaguing  your  sister  enough  already. 
You'll  wish  .  .  .'  Lawford  began,  and  turned  his  tired- 
out  eyes  towards  those  others  awaiting  them  so  frankly 
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The  Return 

they  seemed  in  their  perfect  friendliness  a  rest  from 
all  his  troubles.  'You  see/  he  went  on,  'what  I  kept 
on  thinking  and  thinking  of  was  to  get  a  quite  un- 
biassed and  unprejudiced  view.  She  had  known  me  for 
years,  though  we  had  not  actually  met  more  than  once 
or  twice  since  my  mother's  death.  And  there  she  was 
sitting  with  me  at  the  other  end  of  just  such  another 
little  seat  as' — he  turned  to  Herbert — 'as  ours,  at  Widder- 
stone.  It  was  on  Bewley  Common:  I  can  see  it  all  now; 
it  was  sunset.  And  I  simply  turned  and  asked  her  in  a 
kind  of  a  whining  affected  manner  if  she  remembered 
me;  and  when  after  a  long  time  she  came  round  to  own- 
ing that  to  all  intents  and  purposes  she  did  not — I  pro- 
fessed to  have  made  a  mistake  in  recognising  her.  I  think,' 
he  added,  glancing  up  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  two 
strange  friends,  'I  think  it  was  the  meanest  trick  I  can  re- 
member.' 

'H'm,'  said  Herbert  solemnly :  'I  wish  I  had  as  sensitive 
a  conscience.  But  as  your  old  friend  didn't  recognise  you, 
who's  the  worse?  As  for  her  not  doing  so,  just  think 
of  the  difference  a  few  years  makes  to  a  man,  and  any 
severe  shock.  Life  wears  so  infernally  badly.  Who,  for 
that  matter,  does  not  change,  even  in  character  and  yet  who 
professes  to  see  it?  Mind,  I  don't  say  in  essence!  But 
then  how  many  of  the  human  ghosts  one  meets  does  one 
know  in  essence?  One  doesn't  want  to.  It  would  be 
positively  cataclysmic.  And  that's  what  brings  me 
around  to  feel,  Lawford,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  that 
you  may  have  brooded  a  little  too  keenly  on — on  your 
own  case.  Tell  any  one  you  feel  ill ;  he  will  commiserate 
with  you  to  positive  nausea.  Tell  any  priest  your  soul  is 
in  danger;  will  he  wait  for  proof?  It's  misereres  and 

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The  Return 

penances  world  without  end.  Tell  any  woman  you  love 
her;  will  she,  can  she,  should  she,  gainsay  you?  There 
you  are.  The  cat's  out  of  the  bag,  you  see.  My  sister 
and  I  sat  up  half  the  night  talking  the  thing  over.  I  said 
I'd  take  the  plunge.  I  said  I'd  risk  appearing  the  cras- 
sest, contradictoriest  wretch  that  ever  drew  breath.  I 
don't  deny  that  what  I  hinted  at  the  other  night  must 
seem  in  part  directly  contrary  to  what  I'm  going  to  say 
now.' 

He  wheeled  his  black  eyes  as  if  for  inspiration,  and 
helped  himself  to  salad.  'It's  this,'  he  said.  'Isn't  it 
possible,  isn't  it  even  probable  that  being  ill,  and  over- 
strung, moping  a  little  over  things  more  or  less  out  of 
the  common  ruck,  and  sitting  there  in  a  kind  of  trance — 
isn't  it  possible  that  you  may  have  very  largely  imagined 
the  change?  Hypnotised  yourself  into  believing  it  much 
worse — more  profound,  radical,  acute — and  simply  abso- 
lutely hypnotizing  others  into  thinking  so,  too.  Christen- 
dom is  just  beginning  to  rediscover  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  faith,  that  it  is  just  possible  that,  say,  megrims 
or  melancholia  may  be  removed  at  least  as  easily  as  moun- 
tains. The  converse,  of  course,  is  obvious  on  the  face 
of  it.  A  man  fails  because  he  thinks  himself  a  failure. 
It's  the  men  that  run  away  that  lose  the  battle.  Sup- 
pose then,  Law  ford' — he  leaned  forward,  keen  and 
suave — 'suppose  you  have  been  and  "Sabathiered" 
yourself !' 

Law  ford  had  grown  accustomed  during  the  last  few 
days  to  rinding  himself  gazing  out  like  a  child  into  reality, 
as  if  from  the  windows  of  a  dream.  He  had  in  a  sense 
followed  this  long,  loosely  stitched,  preliminary  argument ; 
he  had  at  least  in  part  realised  that  he  sat  there  between 
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The  Return 

two  clear  friendly  minds  acting  in  the  friendliest  and 
most  obvious  collusion.  But  he  was  incapable  of  fixing 
his  attention  very  closely  on  any  single  fragment  of 
Herbert's  apology,  or  of  rousing  himself  into  being  much 
more  than  a  dispassionate  and  not  very  interested  spectator 
of  the  little  melodrama  that  Fate,  it  appeared,  had  at  the 
last  moment  decided  rather  capriciously  to  twist  into  a 
farce.  He  turned  with  a  smile  to  the  face  so  keenly 
fixed  and  enthusiastic  with  the  question  it  had  so  labor- 
iously led  up  to:  'But  surely,  I  don't  quite  see  .  .  .' 

Herbert  lifted  his  glass  as  if  to  his  visitor's  acumen 
and  set  it  down  again  without  tasting  it.  'Why,  my  dear 
fellow/  he  said  triumphantly,  'even  a  dream  must  have  a 
peg.  Yours  was  this  unforgetable  old  suicide.  Candidly 
now,  how  much  of  Sabathier  was  actually  yours?  In 
spite  of  all  that  that  fantastical  fellow,  Herbert,  said 
last  night,  dead  men  don't  tell  tales.  The  last  place  in 
the  world  to  look  for  a  ghost  is  where  his  traitorous 
bones  lie  crumbling.  Good  heavens,  think  what  irrefutable 
masses  of  evidence  there  would  be  at  our  finger-tips 
if  every  tombstone  hid  its  ghost!  No;  the  fellow 
just  arrested  you  with  his  creepy  epitaph:  an  epi- 
taph, mind  you,  that  is  in  a  literary  sense  distinctly  fertiliz- 
ing. It  catches  one's  fancy  in  its  own  crude  way,  as  pages 
and  pages  of  infinitely  more  complicated  stuff  take  pos- 
session of,  germinate,  and  sprout  in  one's  imag- 
ination in  another  way.  We  are  all  psychical  parasites. 
Why,  given  his  epitaph,  given  the  surroundings,  I  wager 
any  sensitive  consciousness  could  have  guessed  at  his 
face;  and  guessing,  as  it  were,  would  have  feigned  it. 
What  do  you  think,  Grisel?' 

'I  think,  dear,  you  are  talking  absolute  nonsense;  what 

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The  Return 

do  they  call  it — "darkening  counsel"?  It's  "the  hair  of 
the  dog,"  Mr  Lawford.' 

'Well,  then,  you  see/  said  Herbert  over  a  hasty 
mouthful,  and  turning  again  to  his  victim — 'then  you  see, 
when  you  were  just  in  the  pink  of  condition  to  credit 
any  idle  tale  you  heard,  then  7  came  in.  What,  with 
the  least  impetus,  can  one  not  see  by  moonlight?  The 
howl  of  a  dog  turns  the  midnight  into  a  Brocken;  the 
branch  of  a  tree  stoops  out  at  you  like  a  Beelzebub  crusted 
with  gadflies.  I'd,  mind  you,  sipped  of  the  deadly  old 
Huguenot  too-.  I'd  listened  to  your  innocent  prattle 
about  the  child  kicking  his  toes  out  on  death's  cupboard 
door;  what  more  likely  thing  in  the  world,  then,  than 
that  with  that  moon,  in  that  packed  air,  I  should  have 
swallowed  the  bait  whole,  and  seen  Sabathier  in  every 
crevice  of  your  skin?  I  don't  say  there  wasn't  any 
resemblance;  it  was  for  the  moment  extraordinary;  it 
was  even  when  you  were  here  the  other  night  distinctly 
arresting.  But  now  (poor  old  Grisel,  I'm  nearly  done) 
all  I  want  to  say  is  this:  that  if  we  had  the  "foxy  old 
roue"  here  now,  and  Grisel  played  Paris  between  the 
three  of  us,  she'd  hand  over  the  apple  not  to  you  but  to  me.' 

*I  don't  quite  see  where  poor  Paris  comes  in,'  suggested 
Grisel  meekly. 

'No,  nor  do  I,'  said  Herbert.  'All  that  I  mean,  sagacious 
child,  is,  that  Mr  Lawford  no  more  resembles  the  poor 
wretch  now  than  I  resemble  the  Apollo  Belvedere.  If 
you  had  only  heard  my  sister  scolding  me,  railing  at  me 
for  putting  such  ideas  into  your  jangled  head !  They  don't 
affect  me  one  iota.  I  have,  I  suppose,  what  is  usually 
called  imagination;  which  merely  means  that  I  can  sup 
with  the  devil,  spoon  for)  spoon,  and  could  sleep  in 
200 


The  Return 

Bluebeard's  linen-closet  without  turning  a  hair.  You,  if 
I  am  not  very  much  mistaken,  are  not  much  troubled  with 
that  very  unprofitable  quality,  and  so,  I  suppose,  when  a 
crooken  and  bizarre  fancy  does  edge  into  your  mind  it 
roots  there.' 

And  that  said,  not  without  some  little  confusion,  and 
a  covert  glance  of  inquiry  at  his  sister,  Herbert  made 
all  the  haste  he  could  to  catch  up  the  course  that  his 
companions  had  already  finished. 

If  only,  Lawford  thought,  this  insufferable  weariness 
would  lift  awhile  he  could  enjoy  the  quiet,  absurd,  heedless 
talk,  and  this  very  friendly  topsy-turvy  effort  to  ease  his 
mind  and  soothe  his  nerves.  He  might  even  take  an 
interest  again  in  his  'case.' 

'You  see,'  he  said,  turning  to  Grisel,  'I  don't  think  it 
really  very  much  matters  how  it  all  came  about.  I  never 
could  believe  it  would  last.  It  may  perhaps — some  of  it 
at  least  may  be  fancy.  But  then,  what  isn't?  What  is 
trustworthy?  And  now  your  brother  tells  me  my  hair's 
turning  grey.  I  suppose  I  have  been  living  too  slowly,  too 
sluggishly,  and  they  thought  it  was  high  time  to  stir  me  up.' 

He  saw  with  extraordinary  vividness  the  low  panelled 
room;  the  still  listening  face;  the  white  muslin  shoulders 
and  dark  hair;  and  the  eyes  that  seemed  to  recall  some 
far-off  desolate  longing  for  home  and  childhood.  It  was 
all  a  dream.  That  was  the  end  of  the  matter.  Even  now, 
perhaps,  his  tired  old  stupid  body  was  lying  hunched  up, 
drenched  with  dew  upon  the  little  old  seat  under  the  mist- 
wreathed  branches.  Soon  it  would  bestir  itself  and  wake 
up  and  go  off  home — home  to  Sheila,  to  the  old  deadly 
round  that  once  had  seemed  so  natural  and  inevitable,  to 
the  old  dull  Lawford — eyes  and  brain  and  heart. 

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The  Return 

They  returned  up  the  dark  shallow  staircase  to  Herbert's 
book-room,  and  he  talked  on  to  very  quiet  and  passive 
listeners  in  his  own  fantastic  endless  fashion.  And  ever 
and  again  Lawford  would  find  himself  intercepting  fleet- 
ing and  anxious  glances  at  his  face,  glances  almost  of  re- 
morse and  pity;  and  thought  he  detected  beneath  this 
irresponsible  contradictory  babble  an  unceasing  effort  to 
clear  the  sky,  to  lure  away  too  pressing  memories,  to  put 
his  doubts  and  fears  completely  to  rest. 

Herbert  even  went  so  far  as  to  plead  guilty,  when  Grisel 
gave  him  the  cue,  of  having  a  little  heightened  and  over- 
coloured  his  story  of  the  restless  phantasmal  old  creature 
that  haunted  their  queer  wooden  hauntable  old  house. 
And  when  they  rose,  laughing  and  yawning  to  take  up  their 
candles,  it  was,  after  all,  after  a  rather  animated  dis- 
cussion, with  many  a  hair-raising  ghost  story  brought  in 
for  proof  between  brother  and  sister,  as  to  exactly  how 
many  times  that  snuff-coloured  spectre  had  made  his 
appearance ;  and,  with  less  unanimity  still,  as  to  the  precise 
manner  in  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  making  his  pre- 
cipitant exit. 

'You  do  at  any  rate  acknowledge,  Grisel,  that  the  old 
creature  does  appear,  and  that  you  saw  him  yourself  step 
out  into  space  when  you  were  sitting  down  there  under 
the  willow  shelling  peas.  I've  seen  him  twice  for  certain, 
once  rather  hazily;  Sallie  saw  him  so  plainly  she  asked 
his  business :  that's  five.  I  resign/ 

'Acknowledge!'  said  Grisel;  'of  course  I  do.  I'd 
acknowledge  anything  in  the  world  to  save  argument. 
Why,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  him.  If 
only,  now  Mr  Lawford  would  give  him  a  fair  chance  to 
show  himself ;  reading  quietly  here  about  ten  minutes  to 
202 


The  Return 

one,  or  shelling  peas  even,  if  he  prefers  it.  If  only  he'd 
stay  long  enough  for  that.  Wouldn't  it  be  the  very  thing 
for  them  both!' 

'Of  course,'  said  Herbert  cordially,  'the  very  thing.' 

Lawford  looked  up  at  neither  of  them.  He  shook  his 
head. 

But  he  needed  little  persuasion  to  stay  at  least  one  night. 
The  prospect  of  that  long  solitary  walk,  of  that  tired 
stupid  stooping  figure  dragging  itself  along  the  inter- 
minable country  roads  seemed  a  sheer  impossibility.  'It 
is  not — it  isn't,  I  swear  it — the  other  that  keeps  me  back,' 
he  had  solemnly  assured  the  friend  that  half  smiled  her 
relief  at  his  acceptance,  'but — if  you  only  knew  how  empty 
it's  all  got  now;  all  reason  gone  even  to  go  on  at  all.' 

'But  doesn't  it  follow  ?  Of  course  it's  empty.  And  now 
life  is  going  to  begin  again.  I  assure  you  it  is,  I  do  indeed. 
Only,  only  have  courage — just  the  will  to  win  on.' 

He  said  good-night;  shut-to  the  latched  door  of  his 
long  low  room,  ceilinged  with  rafters  close  under  the  steep 
roof,  its  brown  walls  hung  with  quiet,  dark,  pondering 
and  beautiful  faces  looking  gravely  across  at  him.  And 
with  his  candle  in  his  hand  he  sat  down  on  the  bedside. 
All  speculation  was  gone.  The  noisy  clock  of  his  brain 
had  run  down  again.  He  turned  towards  the  old  oval 
looking-glass  on  the  dressing-table  without  the  faintest 
stirring  of  interest,  suspense,  or  anxiety.  What  did  it 
matter  what  a  man  looked  like? — a  now  familiar  but  en- 
feebled and  deprecating  voice  seemed  to  say.  He  knew 
that  a  change  had  come.  Even  Sheila  had  noticed  it.  And 
since  then  what  had  he  not  gone  through?  What  now 
was  here  seemed  of  little  moment,  so  far  at  least  as  this 
world  was  concerned. 

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The  Return 

At  last  with  an  effort  he  rose,  crossed  the  uneven  floor, 
and  looked  in  unmovedly  on  what  was  his  own  poor  face 
come  back  to  him:  changed  indeed  almost  beyond  belief 
from  the  sleek  self-satisfied  genial  yet  languid  Arthur 
Lawford  of  the  past  years,  and  still  haunted  with  some 
faint  trace  of  the  set  and  icy  sharpness,  and  challenge, 
and  affront  of  the  dark  Adventurer,  but  that — how  im- 
measurably dimmed  and  blunted  and  faded.  He  had  ex- 
pected to  find  it  so.  Would  it  (the  thought  vanished 
across  his  mind)  would  it  have  been  as  unmistakably  there 
had  he  come  hot-foot,  fearing,  expecting  to  find  the  other? 
But — was  he  disappointed ! 

He  hardly  knew  how  long  he  stood  there,  leaning  on  his 
hands,  surveying  almost  listlessly  in  the  candle-light  that 
lined,  bedraggled,  grey,  hopeless  countenance,  those  dark- 
socketed,  smouldering  eyes,  whose  pupils  even  now  were 
so  dilated  that  a  casual  glance  would  have  failed  to  detect 
the  least  hint  of  any  iris.  'It  must  have  been  something 
pretty  bad  you  were,  you  know,  or  something  pretty 
bad  you  did,'  they  seemed  to  be  trying  to  say  to  him,  'to 
drag  us  down  to  this.' 

He  knelt  down  by  force  of  habit  to  say  his  prayers; 
but  no  words  came.  Well,  between  earthly  friends  a 
betrayal  such  as  this  would  have  caused  a  livelong  estrange- 
ment and  hostility.  The  God  the  old  Lawford  used  to 
pray  to  would  forgive  him,  he  thought  wearily,  if  just 
for  the  present  he  was  a  little  too  sore  at  heart  to  play 
the  hypocrite.  But  if,  while  kneeling,  he  said  nothing, 
he  saw  a  good  many  things  in  such  tranquillity  and  clear- 
ness as  the  mere  eyes  of  the  body  can  share  but  rarely 
with  their  sisters  of  the  imagination.  And  now  it  was 
Alice  who  looked  mournfully  out  of  the  dark  at  him; 
204 


The  Return 

and  now  the  little  old  charwoman,  Mrs  Gull,  with  her 
bag  hooked  over  her  arm,  climbed  painfully  up  the  area 
steps;  and  now  it  was  the  lean  vexed  face  of  a  friend, 
nursing  some  restless  and  anxious  grievance  against  him 
— Mr  Bethany;  and  then  and  ever  again  it  was  the  face 
of  one  who  seemed  pure  dream  and  fantasy  and  yet  .  .  . 
He  listened  intently  and  fancied  even  now  he  could  hear 
the  voices  of  brother  and  sister  talking  quietly  and  cir- 
cumspectly together  in  the  room  beneath. 


205 


Chapter  Eighteen 


A  QUIET  knocking  aroused  him  in  the  long,  tranquil 
bedroom ;  and  Herbert's  head  was  poked  into  the 
room.  There's  a  bath  behind  that  door  over 
there,'  he  whispered,  'or  if  you  like  I'm  off  for  a  bathe 
in  the  Widder.  It's  a  luscious  day.  Shall  I  wait?  All 
right/  and  the  head  was  withdrawn.  'Don't  put  much 
on,'  came  the  voice  at  the  panel ;  'we'll  be  home  again  in 
twenty  minutes.' 

The  green  and  brightness  of  the  morning  must  have  been 
prepared  for  overnight  by  spiders  and  the  dew.  Every- 
where the  gleaming  nets  were  hung,  and  everywhere  there 
rose  a  tiny  splendour  from  the  waterdrops,  so  clear  and 
pure  and  changeable  it  seemed  with  their  fire  and  colour 
they  shook  a  tiny  crystal  music  in  the  air.  Herbert  led 
the  way  along  a  clayey  downward  path  beneath  hazels 
tossing  softly  together  their  twigs  of  nuts,  until  they 
came  out  into  a  rounded  hollow  that,  mounded  with  thyme, 
sloped  gently  down  to  the  green  banks  of  the  Widder. 
The  water  poured  like  clearest  glass  beneath  a  rain  of 
misty  sunbeams. 

'My  sister  always  says  that  this  is  the  very  dell 
Boccaccio  had  in  his  mind's  eye  when  he  wrote  the 
"Decameron."  There  really  is  something  almost  classic 
in  those  pines.  And  I'd  sometimes  swear  with  my  eyes 
just  out  of  the  water  I've  seen  Dryads  half  in  hiding 
peeping  between  those  beeches.  Good  Lord,  Lawford, 
206 


The  Return 

what  a  world  we  wretched  moderns  have  made,  and 
missed !' 

The  water  was  violently  cold.  It  seemed  to  Law  ford, 
as  it  swept  up  over  his  body,  and  as  he  plunged  his  night- 
distorted  eyes  beneath  its  blazing  surface,  that  it  was 
charged  with  some  strange,  powerful  enchantment  to  wash 
away  in  its  icy  clearness  even  the  memory  of  the  dull  and 
tarnished  days  behind  him.  If  one  could  but  tie  up  any- 
how that  stained  bundle  of  inconsequent  memories  called 
life,  and  fling  it  into  a  cupboard  remoter  even  than  Blue- 
beard's, and  lock  the  door,  and  drop  the  quickly-rusting 
key  into  these  living  waters! 

He  dressed  himself  with  window  thrown  open  to  the 
blackbirds  and  thrushes,  and  the  occasional  shrill  solitary 
whistling  of  a  robin.  But,  like  the  sour-sweet  fragrance 
of  the  brier,  its  wandering  desolate  burst  of  music  had 
power  to  wake  memory,  and  carried  him  instantly  back 
to  that  first  aimless  descent  into  the  evening  gloom  of 
Widder stone  from  which  it  was  in  vain  to  hope  ever  to 
climb  again.  Surely  never  a  more  ghoulish  face  looked 
out  on  its  man  before  than  that  which  confronted  him 
as  with  borrowed  razor  he  stood  shaving  those  sunken 
chaps,  that  angular  chin. 

And  even  now,  beneath  the  lantern  of  broad  daylight, 
just  as  within  that  other  face  had  lurked  the  undeniable 
ghost  and  presence  of  himself,  so  beneath  the  sunken 
features  seemed  to  float,  tenuous  as  smoke,  scarcely  less 
elusive  than  a  dream,  between  eye  and  object,  the  sinister 
darkness  of  the  face  that  in  those  two  bouts  with  fear  he 
had  by  some  strange  miracle  managed  to  repel. 

'Work  in,'  the  chance  phrase  came  back.  It  had 
worked  in  in  sober  earnest ;  and  so  far  as  the  living  of  the 

207 


The  Return 

next  few  weeks  went,  surely  it  might  prove  an  ally  with- 
out which  he  simply  could  not  conceive  himself  as 
struggling  on  at  all. 

But  as  dexterous  minds  as  even  restless  Sabathier's  had 
him  just  now  in  safe  and  kindly  keeping.  All  the  quiet 
October  morning  Herbert  kept  him  talking  and  stooping 
over  his  extraordinary  collection  of  books. 

'The  point  is/  he  explained  to  Lawford,  standing  amid 
a  positive  archipelago  of  precious  'finds,'  with  his  foot 
hoisted  on  to  a  chair  and  a  patched-up,  sea-stained  folio 
on  his  knee,  'I  honestly  detest  the  mere  give  and  take  of 
what  we  are  fools  enough  to  call  life.  I  don't  deny  Life's 
there,'  he  swept  his  hand  towards  the  open  window — 'in 
that  frantic  Tophet  we  call  London ;  but  there's  no  focus, 
no  point  of  vantage.  Even  a  scribbler  only  gets  it  piece- 
meal and  through  a  dulled  medium.  We  learn  to  read 
before  we  know  how  to  see ;  we  swallow  our  tastes,  con- 
victions, and  emotions  whole;  so  that  nine-tenths  of  the 
world's  nectar  is  merely  honeydew.'  He  smiled  pleasantly 
into  the  fixed  vacancy  of  his  visitor's  face.  'That's  why 
I've  just  gone  on,'  he  continued  amiably,  'collecting  this 
particular  kind  of  stuff — what  you  might  call  riff -raff. 
There's  not  a  book  here,  Lawford,  that  hasn't  at  least 
a  glimmer  of  the  real  thing  in  it — just  Life,  seen  through 
a  living  eye,  and  felt.  As  for  literature,  and  style,  and 
all  that  gallimaufry,  don't  fear  for  them  if  your  author 
has  the  ghost  of  a  hint  of  genius  in  his  making.' 

'But  surely,'  said  Lawford,  trying  for  the  twentieth 
time  to  pretend  to  himself  that  these  endless  books  car- 
ried the  faintest  savour  of  the  delight  to  him  which  they 
must,  he  rather  forlornly  supposed,  shower  upon  Her- 
bert, 'surely  genius  is  a  very  rare  thing !' 
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The  Return 

'Rare!  the  world  simply  swarms  with  it.  But  before 
you  can  bottle  it  up  in  a  book  it's  got  to  be  articulate. 
Just  for  a  single  instant  imagine  yourself  Falstaff,  and 
if  there  weren't  hundreds  of  Falstaffs  in  every  genera- 
tion, to  be  ensamples  of  his  ungodly  life,  he'd  be  as  dead 
as  a  doornail  to-morrow — imagine  yourself  Falstaff,  and 
being  so,  sitting  down  to  write  "Henry  IV."  or  "The 
Merry  Wives."  It's  simply  preposterous.  You  wouldn't 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  waste  the  time.  A  mere  Elizabethan 
scribbler  comes  along  with  a  gift  of  expression  and  an 
observant  eye,  lifts  the  bloated  old  tippler  clean  out  of 
life,  and  swims  down  the  ages  as  the  greatest  genius 
the  world  has  ever  seen.  Whereas,  surely,  though 
you  mustn't  let  me  bore  you  with  all  this  piffle,  it's 
Falstaff  is  the  genius,  and  W.  S.  merely  a  talented  re- 
porter. 

'Lear,  Macbeth,  Mercutio — they  live  on  their  own,  as  it 
were.  The  newspapers  are  full  of  them,  if  we  were  only 
the  Shakespeares  to  see  it.  Have  you  ever  been  in  a  Police 
Court?  Have  you  ever  watched  tradesmen  behind  their 
counters?  My  soul,  the  secrets  walking  in  the  streets! 
You  jostle  them  at  every  corner.  There's  a  Polonius 
in  every  first-class  railway  carriage,  and  as  many  Juliets 
as  there  are  boarding-schools.  What  the  devil  are  you, 
my  dear  chap,  but  genius  itself,  with  all  the  world  brand 
new  upon  your  shoulders?  And  who'd  have  thought  it 
of  you  ten  days  ago? 

'It's  simply  and  solely  because  we're  all,  poor  wretches, 
dumb — dumb  as  butts  of  Malmsez ;  dumb  as  drummerless 
drums.  Here  am  I,  ass  that  I  am,  trickling  out  this — 
this  whey  that  no  more  expresses  me  than  Tupper  does 
Sappho.  But  that's  what  I  want  to  mean.  How  inex- 

209 


The  Return 

haustibly  rich  everything  is,  if  you  only  stick  to  life. 
Here  it  is  packed  away  behind  these  rotting  covers,  just 
the  real  thing,  no  respectable  stodge;  no  mere  parasitic 
stuff;  not  more  than  a  dozen  poets;  scores  of  outcasts 
and  vagabonds — and  the  real  thing  in  vagabonds  is  pretty 
rare  in  print,  I  can  tell  you.  We're  all,  every  one  of  us, 
sodden  with  facts,  drugged  with  the  second-hand,  and 
barnacled  with  respectability  until — until  the  touch  comes. 
Goodness  knows  where  from;  but  there's  no  mistaking 
it ;  oh  no !' 

'But  what,'  said  Law  ford  uneasily,  'what  on  earth  do 
you  mean  by  the  touch?' 

'I  mean  when  you  cease  to  be  a  puppet  only  and  sit 
up  in  the  gallery  too.  When  you  squeeze  through  to 
the  other  side.  When  you  suffer  a  kind  of  conversion  of 
the  mind ;  become  aware  of  your  senses.  When  you  get 
a  living  inkling.  When  you  become  articulate  to  your- 
self. When  you  see.' 

'I  am  awfully  stupid,'  Lawford  murmured,  'but  even 
now  I  don't  really  follow  you  a  bit.  But  when,  as  you 
say,  you  do  become  articulate  to  yourself,  what  happens 
then?' 

'Why,  then,'  said  Herbert  with  a  shrug  almost  of  de- 
spair, 'then  begins  the  weary  tramp  back.  One  by  one 
drop  off  the  truisms,  and  the  Grundyisms,  and  the  ped- 
antries, and  all  the  stillborn  claptrap  of  the  market- 
place sloughs  off.  Then  one  can  seriously  begin  to  think 
about  saving  one's  soul.' 

'Saving  one's  soul,'  groaned  Lawford;  'why,  I  am  not 
even  sure  of  my  own  body  yet.'  He  walked  slowly  over 
to  the  window  and  with  every  thought  in  his  head  as 
quiet  as  doves  on  a  sunny  wall,  stared  out  into  the  gar- 
210 


The  Return 

den  of  green  things  growing,  leaves  fading  and  falling 
water.  'I  tell  you  what,'  he  said,  turning  irresolutely, 
'I  wonder  if  you  could  possibly  find  time  to  write  me 
out  a  translation  of  Sabathier.  My  French  is  much  too 
hazy  to  let  me  really  get  at  the  chap.  He's  gone  now; 
but  I  really  should  like  to  know  what  kind  of  stuff  ex- 
actly he  has  left  behind.' 

'Oh,  Sabathier!'  said  Herbert,  laughing.  'What  do 
you  think  of  that,  Grisel?'  he  asked,  turning  to  his  sister, 
who  at  that  moment  had  looked  in  at  the  door.  'Here's 
Mr  Law  ford  asking  me  to  make  a  translation  of  Sabathier. 
Lunch,  Law  ford.' 

Law  ford  sighed.  And  not  until  he  had  slowly 
descended  half  the  narrow  uneven  stairs  that  led  down 
to  the  dining-room  did  he  fully  realise  the  guile  of  a 
sister  that  could  induce  a  hopeless  bookworm  to  waste 
a  whole  morning  over  the  stupidest  of  companions,  simply 
to  keep  his  tired-out  mind  from  rankling,  and  give  his 
Sabathier  a  chance  to  go  to  roost. 

'I  think,  do  you  know,'  he  managed  to  blurt  out  at 
last — 'I  think  I  ought  to  be  getting  home  again.  The 
house  is  empty — and — — ' 

'You  shall  go  this  evening,'  said  Herbert,  'if  you 
really  must  insist  on  it.  But  honestly,  Law  ford,  we 
both  think  that  after  what  the  last  few  days  must 
have  been,  it  is  merely  common  sense  to  take  a  rest.  How 
can  you  possibly  rest  with  a  dozen  empty  rooms  echoing 
every  thought  you  think  ?  There's  nothing  more  to  worry 
about;  you  agree  to  that.  Send  your  people  a  note  say- 
ing that  you  are  here,  safe  and  sound.  Give  them  a 
chance  of  lighting  a  fire,  and  driving  in  the  fatted  calf. 
Stay  on  with  us  just  the  week  out.' 

211 


The  Return 

Lawford  turned  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two 
friendly  faces.  But  what  was  dimly  in  his  mind  refused 
to  express  itself.  'I  think,  you  know,  I — • — '  he  began 
falteringly. 

'But  it's  just  this  thinking  that's  the  deuce — this 
preposterous  habit  of  having  continually  to  make  up  one's 
mind.  Off  with  his  head,  Grisel!  My  sister's  going  to 
take  you  for  a  picnic ;  we  go  every  other  fine  afternoon ; 
and  you  can  argue  it  out  with  her.' 

Once  alone  again  with  Grisel,  however,  Lawford 
found  talking  unnecessary.  Silences  seemed  to  fall  be- 
tween them  as  quietly  and  restfully  as  evening  flows  into 
night.  They  walked  on  slowly  through  the  fading  woods, 
and  when  they  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  that  sloped 
down  to  the  dark  and  foamless  Widder  they  sat  down 
in  the  honey-scented  sunshine  on  a  knoll  of  heather  and 
bracken,  and  Grisel  lighted  the  little  spirit-kettle  she  had 
brought  with  her,  and  busied  herself  very  methodically 
over  making  tea. 

That  done,  she  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees, 
and  sat  now  gossiping,  now  silent,  in  the  pale  autumnal 
beauty.  There  was  a  bird  wistfully  twittering  in  the 
branches  overhead,  and  ever  and  again  a  withered  leaf 
would  slip  circling  down  from  the  motionless  beech 
boughs  arched  in  their  stillness  above  their  heads  beneath 
the  thin  blue  sky. 

'Men,  you  know,'  she  began  again  suddenly,  starting 
out  of  reverie,  'really  are  absurdly  blind;  and  just  a 
little  bit  absurdly  kindly  stupid.  How  many  times  have 
I  been  at  the  point  of  laughing  out  at  my  brother's  del- 
icious naive  subtleties.  But  you  do,  you  will,  under- 
212 


stand,  Mr  Lawford,  that  he  was,  that  we  are  both  "do- 
ing our  best" — to  make  amends?' 

'I  understand — I  do  indeed — a  tenth  part  of  all  your 
kindness.' 

'Yes,  but  that's  just  it — that  horrible  word  "kindness" ! 
It  ever  there  were  two  utterly  self-absorbed  people,  with- 
out a  trace,  with  an  absolute  horror  of  kindness,  it  is 
just  my  brother  and  I.  It's  most  of  it  false  and  most 
of  it  useless.  We  all  surely  must  take  what  comes  in 
this  topsy-turvy  world.  I  believe  in  saying  out : — that 
the  more  one  thinks  about  life  the  worse  it  becomes. 
There  are  only  two  kinds  of  happiness  in  this  world — a 
wooden  post's  and  Prometheus's.  And  who  ever  heard 
of  any  one  having  the  impudence  to  be  kind  to  Prome- 
theus? As  for  a  miserable  "medium"  like  me,  not  quite 
a  post  and  leagues  and  leagues  from  even  envying  a 
Prometheus,  she's  better  for  the  powder  without  the  jam. 
But  that's  all  nothing.  What  I  can't  help  thinking — 
and  it's  not  a  bit  giving  my  brother  away,  because  we 
both  think  it — that  it  was  partly  our  thoughtlessness  that 
added  at  least  something  to— to  the  rest.  It  was  per- 
fectly absurd.  He  saw  you  were  ill;  he  saw — he  must 
have  seen  even  in  that  first  Sunday  talk — that  your 
nerves  were  all  askew.  And  who  doesn't  know  what 
"nerves"  means  nowadays?  And  yet  he  deliberately 
chattered.  He  loves  it — just  at  large,  you  know,  like 
me.  I  told  him  before  I  came  out  that  I  intended,  if 
I  could,  to  say  all  this.  And  now  it's  said  you'll  please 
forgive  me  for  going  back  to  it.' 

'Please  don't  talk  about  forgiveness.  But  when  you 
say  he  chattered,  you  mean  about  Sabathier,  of  course. 

213 


The  Return 

And  that,  you  know,  I  don't  care  a  fig  for  now.  We 
can  settle  all  that  between  ourselves — him  and  me,  I 
mean.  And  now  tell  me  candidly  again — Is  there  any 
"prey"  in  my  face  now  ?' 

She  looked  up  fleetingly  into  his  eyes,  leant  back  her 
head  and  laughed.  '  "Prey,"  there  never  was  a  glimpse.' 

'And  "change"  ?'  Their  eyes  met  again  in  an  infinitely 
brief,  infinitely  bewildering  argument. 

'Really,  really,  scarcely  perceptible,'  she  assured  him, 
'except,  of  course,  how  horribly,  horribly  ill  you  look. 
And  that  only  seems  to  prove  to  me  you  must  be  hiding 
something  else.  No  illusion  on  earth  could — could  have 
done  that  to  your  face.' 

'You  think,  I  know,'  he  persisted,  'that  I  must  be  per- 
suaded and  cosseted  and  humoured.  Yes,  you  do;  it's 
my  poor  old  sanity  that's  really  in  both  your  minds.  Per- 
haps I  am — not  absolutely  sound.  Anyhow,  I've  been 
watching  it  in  your  looks  at  each  other  all  the  time.  And 
I  can  never,  never  say,  never  tell  you  what  you  have 
done  for  me.  But  you  see,  after  all,  we  did  win  through ; 
I  keep  on  telling  myself  that.  So  that  now  it's  purely 
from  the  most  selfish  and  practical  motives  that  I  want 
you  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  me.  I  have  to  go  back, 
you  know;  and  some  of  them,  one  or  two  of  my  friends 
I  mean,  are  not  all  on  my  side.  Think  of  me  as  I  was 
when  you  came  into  the  room,  three  centuries  ago,  and 
you  turned  and  looked,  frowning  at  me  in  the  candle- 
light; remember  that  and  look  at  me  now.  What  is 
the  difference?  Does  it  shock  you?  Does  it  make  the 
whole  world  seem  a  trick,  a  sham?  Does  it  simply 
sour  your  life  to  think  such  a  thing  possible?  Oh,  the 
hours  I've  spent  gloating  on  Widderstone's  miserable 
214 


The  Return 

mask  of  skin  and  bone,  as  I  was  saying  to  your  brother 
only  last  night,  and  never  knew  until  they  shuffled  me 
that  the  old  self  too  was  nothing  better  than  a  stifling 
suffocating  mask.' 

'But  dent  you  see,'  she  argued  softly,  turning  her 
face  away  a  little,  'you  were  a  stranger  then  (though 
I  certainly  didn't  mean  to  frown).  And  then  a  little 
while  after  we  were,  well,  just  human  beings,  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  and  if  friendship  does  not  mean  that,  I  don't 
know  what  it  does  mean.  And  now,  you  are — well,  just 
you:  the  you,  you  know,  of  three  centuries  ago!  And 
if  you  mean  to  ask  me  whether  at  any  precise  moment 
I  have  been  conscious  that  this  you  I  am  now  speaking 
to  was  not  the  you  of  last  night,  or  of  that  dark  climb 
up  the  hill,  why,  it  is  simply  frantic  to  think  it  could 
ever  be  necessary  to  say  over  and  over  again,  No.  But 
if  you  mean,  Have  you  changed  else?  All  I  could  an- 
swer is,  Don't  we  all  change  as  we  grow  to  know  one 
another?  What  were  just  features,  what  just  dingily 
represented  one,  as  it  were,  is  forgotten,  or  rather  gets 
remembered.  Of  course,  the  first  glimpse  is  the  land- 
scape under  lightning  as  it  were.  But  afterwards  isn't 
it  surely  like  the  alphabet  to  a  child ;  what  was  first  a  queer 
angular  scrawl  becomes  A,  and  is  always  ever  after  A, 
undistinguished,  half -forgotten,  yet  standing  at  last  for 
goodness  knows  what  real  wonderful  things — or  for  just 
the  dry  bones  of  soulless  words?  Is  that  it?''  She  stole 
a  sidelong  glance  into  his  brooding  face,  leaning  her  head 
on  her  hand. 

'Yes,  yes,'  came  the  rather  dissatisfied  reply.  'I  do 
agree;  perfectly.  But  then,  you  see — I  told  you  I  was 
going  to  talk  of  nothing  but  myself — what  did  at  first 

215 


The  Return 

happen  to  me  was  something  much  worse,  and,  I  sup- 
pose, something  quite  different  from  that/ 

'And  yet,  didn't  you  tell  us,  that  of  all  your  friends 
not  one  really  denied  in  their  hearts  your — what  they 
would  call,  I  suppose — your  identity;  except  that  poor 
little  offended  old  lady.  And  even  she,  if  my  intuition 
is  worth  a  penny  piece,  even  she  when  you  go  soon  and 
talk  to  her  will  own  that  she  did  know  you,  and  that 
it  was  not  because  you  were  a  stranger  that  she 
was  offended,  but  because  you  so  ungenerously  pre- 
tended to  be  one.  That  was  a  little  mad,  now,  if  you 
like!' 

'Oh  yes,'  said  Lawford,  'I  am  going  to  ask  her  for- 
giveness. I  don't  know  what  I  didn't  vow  to  take  her 
for  a  peace-offering  if  the  chance  should  ever  come — 
and  the  courage — to  make  my  peace  with  her.  But  now 
that  the  chance  has  come,  and  I  think  the  courage,  it  is 
the  desire  that's  gone.  I  don't  seem  to  care  either  way. 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  got  past  making  my  peace  with  any 
one.' 

But  this  time  no  answer  helped  him  out. 

'After  all,'  he  went  plodding  on,  'there  is  more  than 
just  the  mere  day  to  day  to  consider.  And  one  doesn't 
realise  that  one's  face  actually  is  one's  fortune  without 
a  shock.  And  that  that  gone,  one  is,  as  your  brother  said, 
just  like  a  bee  come  back  to  the  wrong  hive.  It  under- 
mines,' he  smiled  rather  bitterly,  'one's  views  rather. 
And  it  certainly  shifts  one's  friends.  If  it  hadn't  been 
just  for  my  old' — he  stopped  dead,  and  again  pushed 
slowly  on — 'if  it  hadn't  been  for  our  old  friend,  Mr 
Bethany,  I  doubt  if  we  should  now  have  had  a  soul 
on  our  side.  I  once  read  somewhere  that  wolves  al- 
216 


The  Return 

ways  chase  the  old  and  weak  and  maimed  out  of  the  pack. 
And  after  all,  what  do  we  do?  Where  do  we  keep  the 
homeless  and  the  insane?  And  yet,  you  know,'  he  added 
ruminatingly,  'it  is  not  as  if  mine  was  ever  a  particularly 
lovely  or  lovable  face!  While  as  for  the  poor  wretch 
behind  it,  well,  I  really  cannot  see  what  meaning,  or  life 
even,  he  had  before — • — ' 

'Before?' 

Law  ford  met  bravely  the  clear  whimsical  eyes.  'Be- 
fore, I  was  Sabathiered.' 

Grisel  laughed  outright. 

'You  think,'  he  retorted  almost  bitterly,  'you  think 
I  am  talking  like  a  child.' 

'Yes,'  she  sighed  cheerfully,  'I  was  quite  envying  you.' 

'Well,  there  I  am,'  said  Law  ford  inconsequently.  'And 
now;  well,  now,  I  suppose,  the  whole  thing's  to  begin 
again.  I  can't  help  beginning  to  wonder  what  the  mean- 
ing of  it  all  is;  why  one's  duty  should  always  seem  so 
very  stupid  a  thing.  And  then,  too,  what  can  there  be 
on  earth  that  even  a  buried  Sabathier  could  desire?'  He 
glanced  up  in  a  really  animated  perplexity  at  the  still, 
dark  face  turned  in  the  evening  light  towards  the  dark- 
ening valley.  And  perplexity  deepened  into  a  disquieted 
frown — like  that  of  a  child  who  is  roused  suddenly  from 
a  daydream  by  the  half-forgotten  question  of  a  stranger. 
He  turned  his  eyes  almost  furtively  away  as  if  afraid 
of  disturbing  her ;  and  for  awhile  they  sat  in  silence  .  .  . 
At  last  he  turned  again  almost  shyly.  'I  hope  some 
day  you  will  let  me  bring  my  daughter  to  see  you.' 

'Yes,  yes,'  said  Grisel  eagerly;  'we  should  both  love 
it,  of  course.  Isn't  it  curious  ? — I  simply  knew  you  had 
a  daughter.  Sheer  intuition !' 

217 


The  Return 

'I  say  "some  day,'"  said  Law  ford;  'I  know,  though, 
that  that  some  day  will  never  come.' 

'Wait;  just  wait,'  replied  the  quiet  confident  voice, 
'that  will  come  too.  One  thing  at  a  time,  Mr.  Law  ford. 
You've  won  your  old  self  back  again ;  you'll  win  your  old 
love  of  life  back  again  in  a  little  while;  never  fear.  Oh, 
don't  I  know  that  awful  Land's  End  after  illness ;  and  that 
longing,  too,  that  gnawing  longing,  too,  for  Ultima  Thule. 
So,  it's  a  bargain  between  us  that  you  bring  your  daughter 
soon.'  She  busied  herself  over  the  tea  things.  'And,  of 
course,'  she  added,  as  if  it  were  an  afterthought,  looking 
across  at  him  in  the  pale  green  sunlight  as  she  knelt,  'you 
simply  won't  think  of  going  back  to-night.  .  .  .  Solitude, 
I  really  do  think,  solitude  just  now  would  be  absolute  mad- 
ness. You'll  write  to-day  and  go,  perhaps,  to-morrow ! 

Law  ford  looked  across  in  his  mind  at  his  square 
ungainly  house,  full-fronting  the  afternoon  sun.  He  tried 
to  repress  a  shudder.  'I  think,  do  you  know,  I  ought  to 
go  to-day.' 

'Well,  why  not?  Why  not?  Just  to  reassure  yourself 
that  all's  well.  And  come  back  here  to  sleep.  If  you'd 
really  promise  that  I'd  drive  you  in.  I'd  love  it.  There's 
the  jolliest  little  governess-cart  we  sometimes  hire  for  our 
picnics.  May  I  ?  You've  no  idea  how  much  easier  in  our 
minds  my  brother  and  I  would  be  if  you  would.  And 
then  to-morrow,  or  at  any  rate  the  next  day,  you  shall  be 
surrendered,  whole  and  in  your  right  mind.  There,  that's 
a  bargain  too.  Now  we  must  hurry.' 


218 


Chapter  Nineteen 


HERBERT  himself  went  down  to  order  the  gover- 
ness cart,  and  packed  them  in  with  a  rug.  And 
in  the  dusk  Grisel  set  Law  ford  down  at  the  cor- 
ner of  his  road  and  drove  on  to  an  old  bookseller's  with  a 
commission  from  her  brother,  promising  to  return  for  him 
in  an  hour.  Dust  and  a  few  straws  lay  at  rest  as  if  in 
some  abstruse  arrangement  on  the  stones  of  the  porch  just 
as  the  last  faint  whirling  gust  of  sunset  had  left  them. 
Shut  lids  of  sightless  indifference  seemed  to  greet  the 
wanderer  from  the  curtained  windows. 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  in  the  vacant  hall ;  then  he  peeped  first  into  the  blind- 
drawn  dining-room,  faintly,  dingily  sweet,  like  an  empty 
wine-bottle.  He  went  softly  on  a  few  paces  and  just 
opening  the  door  looked  in  on  the  faintly  glittering  twilight 
of  the  drawing-room.  But  the  congealed  stump  of  candle 
that  he  had  set  in  the  corner  as  a  final  rancorous  challenge 
to  the  beaten  Shade  was  gone.  He  slowly  and  deliberately 
ascended  the  stairs,  conscious  of  a  peculiar  sense  of 
ownership  of  what  in  even  so  brief  an  absence  had  taken 
on  so  queer  a  look  of  strangeness.  It  was  almost  as  if  he 
might  be  some  lone  heir  come  in  the  rather  mournful 
dusk  to  view  what  melancholy  fate  had  unexpectedly 
bestowed  on  him. 

'Work  in' — what  on  earth  else  could  this  chill  sense  of 
strangeness  mean?  Would  he  ever  free  his  memory 

219 


The  Return 

from  that  one  haphazard,  haunting  hint?  And  as  he 
stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  big,  calm  room,  which  seemed 
even  now  to  be  stirring  with  the  restless  shadow  of  these 
last  few  far-away  days;  now  pacing  sullenly  to  and  fro; 
now  sitting  hunched-up  to  think ;  and  now  lying  impotent 
in  a  vain,  hopeless  endeavour  only  for  the  breath  of  a 
moment  to  forget — he  awoke  out  of  reverie  to  find  himself 
smiling  at  the  thought  that  a  changed  face  was  practically 
at  the  mercy  of  an  incredulous  world,  whereas  a  changed 
heart  was  no  one's  deadly  dull  affair  but  its  owner's. 
The  merest  breath  of  pity  even  stole  over  him  for  the 
Sabathier  who  after  all  had  dared  and  had  needed,  per- 
haps, nothing  like  so  arrogant  and  merciless  a  coup  de 
grace  to  realise  that  he  had  so  ignominiously  failed. 

'But  there,  that's  done !'  he  exclaimed  out  loud,  not  with- 
out a  tinge  of  regret  that  theories,  however  brilliant  and 
bizarre,  could  never  now  be  anything  else — that  now 
indeed  that  the  symptoms  had  gone,  the  'malady,'  for  all 
who  had  not  been  actually  admitted  into  the  shocked 
circle,  was  become  nothing  more  than  an  inanely  'tall' 
story;  stuffing  not  even  savoury  enough  for  a  goose. 
How  wide  exactly,  he  wondered,  would  Sheila's  discreet, 
shocked  circle  prove?  He  stood  once  more  before  the 
looking-glass,  hearing  again  Grisel's  words  in  the  still 
green  shadow  of  the  beech-tree,  'Except  of  course, 
horribly,  horribly  ill.'  'What  a  fool,  what  a  coward  she 
thinks  I  am!' 

There  was  still  nearly  an  hour  to  be  spent  in  this  great 
barn,  of  faded  interests.  He  lit  a  candle  and  descended 
into  the  kitchen.  A  mouse  went  scampering  to  its  hole  as 
he  pushed  open  the  door.  The  memory  of  that  ravenous 
morning  meal  nauseated  him.  It  was  sour  and  very  still 
220 


The  Return 

here ;  he  stood  erect ;  the  air  smelt  faint  of  earth.  In  the 
breakfast-room  the  bookcase  still  swung  open.  Late 
evening  mantled  the  garden;  and  in  sheer  ennui  again  he 
sat  down  to  the  table,  and  turned  for  a  last  not  unfriendly 
hob-a-nob  with  his  poor  old  friend  Sabathier.  He  would 
take  the  thing  back.  Herbert,  of  course,  was  going  to 
translate  it  for  him.  Now  if  the  patient  old  Frenchman 
had  stormed  Herbert  instead — that  surely  would  have 
been  something  like  a  coup !  Those  frenzied  books.  The 
absurd  talk  of  the  man.  Herbert  was  perfectly  right — 
he  could  have  entertained  fifty  old  Huguenots  without 
turning  a  hair.  Tm  such  an  awful  stodge.' 

He  turned  the  woolly  leaves  over  very  slowly.  He 
frowned  impatiently,  and  from  the  end  backwards  turned 
them  over  again.  Then  he  laid  the  book  softly  down  on 
the  table  and  sat  back.  He  stared  with  narrowed  lids  into 
the  flame  of  his  quiet  friendly  candle.  Every  trace,  every 
shred  of  portrait  and  memoir  were  gone.  Once  more, 
deliberately,  punctiliously,  he  examined  page  by  page  the 
blurred  and  unfamiliar  French — the  sooty  heads,  the  long, 
lean  noses,  the  baggy  eyes  passing  like  figures  in  a  peep- 
show  one  by  one  tinder  his  hand — to  the  last  fragmentary 
and  dexterously  mended  leaf.  Yes,  Sabathier  was  gone. 
Quite  the  old  slow  Lawford  smile  crept  over  his  face  at 
the  discovery.  It  was  a  smile  a  little  sheepish  too,  as  he 
thought  of  Sheila's  quiet  vigilance. 

And  the  next  instant  he  had  looked  up  sharply,  with  a 
sudden  peculiar  shrug,  and  a  kind  of  cry,  like  the  first 
thin  cry  of  an  awakened  child,  in  his  mind.  Without  a 
moment's  hesitation  he  climbed  swiftly  upstairs  again  to 
the  big  sepulchral  bedroom.  He  pressed  with  his  finger- 
nail the  tiny  spring  in  the  looking-glass.  The  empty 

221 


The  Return 

drawer  flew  open.  There  were  finger-marks  still  in  the 
dust. 

Yet,  strangely  enough,  beneath  all  the  clashing  thoughts 
that  came  flocking  into  his  mind  as  he  stood  with  the 
empty  drawer  in  his  hand,  was  a  wounding  yet  still  a  little 
amused  pity  for  his  old  friend  Mr  Bethany.  So  far  as  he 
himself  was  concerned  the  discovery — well,  he  would  have 
plenty  of  time  to  consider  everything  that  could  possibly 
now  concern  himself.  Anyhow,  it  could  only  simplify 
matters. 

He  remembered  waking  to  that  old  wave  of  sickening 
horror  on  the  first  unhappy  morning;  he  remembered  the 
keen  yet  owlish  old  face  blinking  its  deathless  friendliness 
at  him,  and  the  steady  pressure  of  the  cold,  skinny  hand. 
As  for  Sheila,  she  had  never  done*  anything  by  halves; 
certainly  not  when  it  came  to  throwing  over  a  friend  no 
longer  necessary  to  one's  social  satisfaction.  But  she 
would  edge  out  cleverly,  magnanimously,  triumphantly 
enough,  no  doubt,  when  the  day  of  reckoning  should  come, 
the  day  when,  her  nets  wide  spread,  her  bait  prepared,  he 
must  stand  up  before  her  outraged  circle  and  positively 
prove  himself  her  lawful  husband,  perhaps  even  to  the 
very  imprint  of  his  thumb. 

'Poor  old  thing !'  he  said  again ;  and  this  time  his  pity 
was  shared  almost  equally  between  both  witnesses  to  Mr 
Bethany's  ingenuous  little  document,  the  loss  of  which 
had  fallen  so  softly  and  pathetically  that  he  felt  only 
ashamed  of  having  discovered  it  so  soon. 

He  shut  back  the  tell-tale  drawer,  and  after  trying  to 
collect  his  thoughts  in  case  anything  should  have  been  for- 
gotten, he  turned  with  a  deep  trembling  sigh  to  descend  the 
stairs.  But  on  the  landing  he  drew  back  at  the  sound  of 
222 


The  Return 

voices,  and  then  a  footstep.  Soon  came  the  sound  of  a 
key  in  the  lock.  He  blew  out  his  candle  and  leant  listen- 
ing over  the  balusters. 

'Who's  there?'  he  called  quietly. 

'Me,  sir/  came  the  feeble  reply  out  of  the  darkness. 

'What  is  it,  Ada?    What  have  you  come  for?' 

'Only,  sir,  to  see  that  all  was  safe,  and  you  were  in,  sir/ 

'Yes,'  he  said.  'All's  safe;  and  I  am  in.  What  if  I 
had  been  out?'  It  was  like  dropping  tiny  pebbles  into  a 
deep  well — so  long  after  came  the  answering  feeble  splash. 

'Then  I  was  to  go  back,  sir.'  And  a  moment  after  the 
discreet  voice  floated  \up  with  the  faintest  tinge  of 
effrontery  out  of  the  hush.  'Is  that  Dr  Ferguson,  too  sir?' 

'No,  Ada;  and  please  tell  your  mistress  from  me  that 
Dr  Ferguson  is  unlikely  to  call  again.'  A  keen  but  rather 
forlorn  smile  passed  over  his  face.  'He's  dining  with 
friends  no  doubt  at  Hollo  way.  But  of  course  if  she 
should  want  to  see  him  he  will  see  her  to-morrow  at  any 
hour  at  Mrs  Lovat's.  And — Ada !' 

'Yes,  sir?' 

'Say  that  I'm  a  little  better;  your  mistress  will  be 
relieved  to  hear  that  I'm  a  little  better ;  still  not  quite  my- 
self say,  but,  I  think,  a  little  better.' 

'Yes,  sir;  and  I'm  sure  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,'  came 
fainter  still. 

'What  voice  was  that  I  heard  just  now?' 

'Miss  Alice's,  sir ;  but  she  came  quite  against  my  wishes, 
and  I  hope  you  won't  repeat  it,  sir.  She  promised  if  she 
came  that  mistress  shouldn't  know.  I  was  only  afraid  she 
might  disturb  you,  or — or  Dr  Ferguson.  And  did  you 
say,  sir,  that  I  was  to  tell  mistress  that  he  might  be  coming 
back?' 

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The  Return 

'Ah,  that  I  don't  know;  so  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well 
not  to  mention  him  at  all.  Is  Miss  Alice  there?' 

'I  said  I  would  tell  her  if  you  were  alone.  But  I 
hope  you'll  understand  that  it  was  only  because  she  begged 
so.  Mistress  has  gone  to  St  Peter's  bazaar;  and  that's 
how  it  was/ 

'I  quite  understand.     Beckon  to  her.' 

There  came  a  hasty  step  in  the  hall  and  a  hurried  mur- 
mur of  explanation.  Lawford  heard  her  call  as  she  ran 
up  the  stairs;  and  the  next  moment  he  had  Alice's  hand 
in  his  and  they  were  groping  together  through  the  gloam- 
ing back  into  the  solitude  of  the  empty  room  again. 

'Don't  be  alarmed,  dear,'  he  heard  himself  imploring. 
Just  hold  tight  to  that  clear  common  sense,  and  above  all 
you  won't  tell  ?  It  must  be  our  secret ;  a  dead,  dead  secret 
from  every  one,  even  your  mother,  for  just  a  little 
while;  just  a  mere  two  days  or  so — in  case.  I'm — I'm 
better,  dear.' 

He  fumbled  with  the  little  box  of  matches,  dropped 
one,  broke  another;  but  at  last  the  candle-flame  dipped, 
brightened,  and  with  the  door  shut  and  the  last  pale  blue- 
ness  of  dusk  at  the  window  Lawford  turned  and  looked  at 
his  daughter.  She  stood  with  eyes  wide  open,  like  the 
eyes  of  a  child  walking  in  its  sleep;  then  twisted  her 
fingers  more  tightly  within  his.  'Oh,  dearest,  how  ill, 
how  ill  you  look/  she  whispered.  'But  there,  never 
mind — never  mind.  It  was  all  a  miserable  dream,  then; 
it  won't,  it  can't  come  back?  I  don't  think  I  could  bear 
its  coming  back.  And  mother  told  me  such  curious 
things ;  as  if  I  were  a  child  and  understood  nothing.  And 
even  after  I  knew  that  you  were  you — I  mean  before  I 
sat  up  here  in  the  dark  to  see  you — she  said  that  you 
224 


The  Return 

were  gone  and  would  never  come  back;  that  a  terrible 
thing  had  happened — a  disgrace  which  we  must  never 
speak  of;  and  that  all  the  other  was  only  a  pretence  to 
keep  people  from  talking.  But  I  did  not  believe  then, 
and  how  could  I  believe  afterwards?' 

'There,  never  mind  now,  dear,  what  she  said.  It  was 
all  meant  for  the  best,  perhaps.  But  here  I  am ;  and  not 
nearly  so  ill  as  I  look,  Alice;  and  there's  nothing  more 
to  trouble  ourselves  about;  not  even  if  it  should  be  neces- 
sary for  me  to  go  away  for  a  time.  And  this  is  our 
secret,  mind;  ours  only;  just  a  dead  secret  between  you 
and  me.' 

They  sat  for  a  while  without  speaking  or  stirring.  And 
faintly  along  the  hushed  road  Lawford  heard  in  the 
silence  a  leisurely  indolent  beat  of  little  hoofs  approach- 
ing, and  the  sound  of  wheels.  A  sudden  wave  of  feel- 
ing swept  over  him.  He  took  Alice's  quiet  loving  face  in 
his  hands  and  kissed  her  passionately.  'Do  not  so  much 
as  think  of  me  yet,  or  doubt,  or  question:  only  love  me, 
dearest.  And  soon — and  soon ' 

'We'll  just  begin  again,  just  begin  again,  won't  we? 
all  three  of  us  together,  just  as  we  used  to  be.  I  didn't 
mean  to  have  said  all  those  horrid  things  about  mother. 
She  was  only  dreadfully  anxious  and  meant  everything 
for  the  best.  You'll  let  me  tell  her  soon?' 

The  haggard  face  turned  slowly,  listening.  'I  hear,  I 
understand,  but  I  can't  think  very  clearly  now,  Alice;  I 
can't,  dear;  my  miserable  old  tangled  nerves.  I  just 
stumble  along  as  best  I  can.  You'll  understand  better 
when  you  get  to  be  a  poor  old  thing  like  me.  We  must 
do  the  best  we  can.  And  of  course  you'll  see,  Dillie, 
how  awfully  important  it  is  not  to  raise  false  hopes. 

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The  Return 

You  understand?  I  mustn't  risk  the  least  thing  in  the 
world,  must  I  ?  And  now  goodbye ;  only  for  a  few  hours 
now.  And  not  a  word,  not  a  word  to  a  single  living 
soul.' 

He  extinguished  the  candle  again,  and  led  the  way  to 
the  top  of  the  stairs.  'Are  you  there,  Ada?' 

'Yes,  sir,'  answered  the  quiet  imperturbable  voice  from 
under  the  black  straw  brim.  Alice  went  slowly  down, 
but  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  looking  out  into  the  cold, 
blue,  lamplit  street  she  paused  as  if  at  a  sudden 
recollection,  and  ran  hastily  up  again. 

'There  was  nothing  more,  dear?'  She  said,  leaning 
back  to  peer  up. 

'"Nothing  more?"    What?' 

She  stood  panting  a  little  in  the  darkness,  listening  to 
some  cautious  yet  uneasy  thought  that  seemed  to  haunt 
her  mind.  'I  thought — it  seemed  there  was  something 
we  had  not  said,  something  I  could  not  understand. 
But  there,  it  is  nothing !  You  know  what  a  fanciful  old 
silly  I  am.  You  do  love  me?  Quite  as  much  as  ever?" 

'More,  sweetheart,  more!" 

'Good-night  again,  then;  and  God  bless  you,  dear.' 

The  outer  door  closed  softly,  the  footsteps  died  away. 
Lawford  still  hesitated.  He  took  hold  of  the  stairs 
above  his  head  as  he  stood  on  the  landing  and  leaned  his 
head  upon  his  hands,  striving  calmly  to  disentangle  the 
perplexity  of  his  thoughts.  His  pulses  were  beating  in 
his  ear  with  a  low  muffled  roar.  He  looked  down  be- 
tween the  blinds  to  where  against  the  blue  of  the  road  be- 
neath the  straggling  yellow  beams  of  the  lamp  stood  the 
little  cart  and  drooping,  shaggy  pony,  and  Grisel  sitting 
quietly  there  awaiting  him.  He  shut  his  eyes  as  if  in 
226 


The  Return 

hope  by  some  convulsive  effort  of  mind  to  break  through 
this  subtle  glasslike  atmosphere  of  dream  that  had  stolen 
over  consciousness,  and  blotted  out  the  significance,  almost 
the  meaning  of  the  past.  He  turned  abruptly.  Empty 
as  the  empty  rooms  around  him,  unanswering  were  mind 
and  heart.  Life  was  a  tale  told  by  an  idiot — signifying 
nothing. 

He  paused  at  the  head  of  the  staircase.  And  even 
then  the  doubt  confronted  him:  Would  he  ever  come 
back  ?  Who  knows  ?  he  thought ;  and  again  stood  ponder- 
ing, arguing,  denying.  At  last  he  seemed  to  have  come  to 
a  decision.  He  made  his  way  downstairs,  opened  and 
left  ajar  a  long  narrow  window  in  a  passage  to  the  garden 
beyond  the  kitchen.  He  turned  on  his  heel  as  he  reached 
the  gate  and  waved  his  hand  as  if  in  a  kind  of  forlorn 
mockery  towards  the  darkly  glittering  windows.  The 
drowsy  pony  woke  at  touch  of  the  whip. 

Grisel  lifted  the  rug  and  squeezed  a  little  closer  into 
the  corner.  She  had  drawn  a  veil  over  her  face,  so  that 
to  Law  ford  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  dreaming  in  a  little 
darkness  of  their  own  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  side  of 
the  cart.  'It's  a  most  curious  thing,'  he  said,  'but  peep- 
ing down  at  you  just  now  when  the  sound  of  the  wheels 
came,  a  memory  came  clearly  back  to  me  of  years  and 
years  ago — of  my  mother.  She  used  to  come  to  fetch  me 
at  school  in  a  little  cart  like  this,  and  a  little  pony  just  like 
this,  with  a  thick  dusty  coat.  And  once  I  remember  I 
was  simply  sick  of  everything,  a  failure,  and  fagged  out, 
and  all  that,  and  was  looking  out  in  the  twilight;  I 
fancy  even  it  was  autumn  too.  It  was  a  little  side  stair- 
case window;  I  was  horribly  homesick.  And  she  came 
quite  unexpectedly.  I  shall  never  forget  it — the  misery, 

227 


The  Return 

and  then,  her  coming.'  He  lifted  his  eyes,  cowed  with 
the  incessant  struggle,  and  watched  her  face  for  some  time 
in  silence.  'Ought  I  to  stay?' 

'I  see  no  "ought,"  '  she  said.     'No  one  is  there  ?' 

'Only  a  miserable  broken  voice  out  of  a  broken  cage — 
called  Conscience.' 

'Don't  you  think,  perhaps,  that  even  that  has  a  good 
many  disguises — convention,  cowardice,  weakness,  ennui; 
they  all  take  their  turn  at  hooting  in  its  feathers?  You 
must,  you  really  must  have  rest.  You  don't  know;  you 
don't  see ;  I  do.  Just  a  little  snap,  some  one  last  exquisite 
thread  gives  way,  and  then  it  is  all  over.  You  see  I  have 
even  to  try  to  frighten  you,  for  I  can't  tell  you  how  you 
distress  me.' 

'Why  do  I  distress  you  ? — my  face,  my  story  you  mean  ?' 

'No;  I  mean  you:  your  trouble,  that  horrible  empty 
house,  and — oh,  dear  me,  yes,  your  courage  too.' 

'Listen.'  Said  Lawford,  stooping  forward.  He  could 
scarcely  see  the  pale,  veiled  face  through  this  mist  that 
had  risen  up  over  his  eyes.  'I  have  no  courage  apart 
from  you ;  no  courage  and  no  hope.  Ask  me  to  come ! — 
a  stranger  with  no  history,  no  mockery,  no  miserable 
rant  of  a  grave  and  darkness  and  fear  behind  me.  Are 
we  not  all  haunted — every  one?  That  forgotten,  and 
the  fool  I  was,  and  the  vacillating,  and  the  pretence — 
oh,  how  it  all  sweeps  clear  before  me;  without  a  will, 
without  a  hope  or  glimpse  or  whisper  of  courage.  Be 
just  the  memory  of  my  mother,  the  face,  the  friend  I've 
never  seen;  the  voice  that  every  dream  leaves  echoing. 
Ask  me  to  come.' 

She  sat  unstirring;  and  then  as  if  by  some  uncontrol- 
228 


The  Return 

lable  impulse  stooped  a  little  closer  to  him  and  laid  her 
gloved  hand  on  his. 

'I  hear,  you  know ;  I  hear  too/  she  whispered.  'But — 
we  mustn't  listen.  Come  now-  It's  growing  late-' 

The  little  village  echoed  back  from  its  stone  walls  the 
clatter  of  the  pony's  hoofs.  Night  had  darkened  to  its 
deepest  when  their  lamp  shone  white  on  the  wicket  in  the 
hedge.  They  had  scarcely  spoken.  Law  ford  had  simply 
watched  pass  by,  almost  without  a  thought,  the  arching 
trees,  the  darkening  fields;  had  watched  rise  up  in  a 
mist  of  primrose  light  the  harvest  moon  to  shine  in  saffron 
on  the  faces  and  shoulders  of  the  few  wayfarers  they 
met,  or  who  passed  them  by.  The  still  grave  face  be- 
neath the  shadow  of  its  veil  had  never  turned,  though 
the  moon  poured  all  her  flood  of  brilliance  upon  the 
dark  profile.  And  once  when  as  if  in  sudden  alarm  he 
had  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  a  sudden  doubt 
had  assailed  him  so  instantly  that  he  had  half  put  out 
his  hand  to  touch  her,  and  had  as  quickly  withdrawn  it, 
lest  her  beauty  and  stillness  should  be,  even  as  the  mo- 
ment's fancy  had  suggested,  only  a  far-gone  memory 
returned  in  dream. 

Herbert  hailed  them  from  the  darkness  of  an  open 
window.  He  came  down,  and  they  talked  a  little  in  the 
cold  air  of  the  garden.  He  lit  a  cigarette,  and  climbed 
languidly  into  the  cart,  and  drove  the  drowsy  little 
pony  off  into  the  moonlight. 


229 


Chapter  Twenty 


IT  was  a  quiet  supper  the  three  friends  sat  down  to. 
Herbert  sat  narrowing  his  eyes  over  his  thoughts, 
which,  when  the  fancy  took  him,  he  scattered  out 
upon  the  others'  silence.  Lawford  apparently  had  not 
yet  shaken  himself  free  from  the  sorcery  of  the  moonlight. 
His  eyes  shone  dark  and  full  like  those  of  a  child  who 
has  trespassed  beyond  its  hour  for  bed,  and  sits  marvelling 
at  reality  in  a  waking  dream. 

Long  after  they  had  bidden  each  other  good-night,  long 
after  Herbert  had  trodden  on  tiptoe  with  his  candle 
past  his  closed  door,  Lawford  sat  leaning  on  his  arms  at 
the  open  window,  staring  out  across  the  motionless  moon- 
lit trees  that  seemed  to  stand  like  draped  and  dreaming 
pilgrims,  come  to  the  peace  of  their  Nirvana  at  last 
beside  the  crashing  music  of  the  waters.  And  he  him- 
self, the  self  that  never  sleeps  beneath  the  tides  and 
waves  of  consciousness,  was  listening,  too,  almost  as  un- 
movedly  and  unheedingly  to  the  thoughts  that  clashed 
in  conflict  through  his  brain. 

Why,  in  a  strange  transitory  life  was  one  the  slave 
of  these  small  cares?  What  if  even  in  that  dark  pit  be- 
neath, which  seemed  to  whisper  Lethe  to  the  tumultuous, 
swirling  waters — what  if  there,  too,  were  merely  a  be- 
ginning again,  and  to  seek  a  slumbering  refuge  there 
merely  a  blind  and  reiterated  plunge  into  the  heat  and  tu- 
mult of  another  day?  Who  was  that  poor,  dark,  home- 
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The  Return 

less  ghoul,  Sabathier?  Who  was  this  Helen  of  an  im- 
possible dream?  Her  face  with  its  strange  smile,  her 
eyes  with  their  still  pity  and  rapt  courage  had  taken 
hope  away.  'Here's  not  your  rest,'  cried  one  insistent 
voice;  'she  is  the  mystery  that  haunts  day  and  night, 
past  all  the  changing  of  the  restless  hours.  Chance  has 
given  you  back  eyes  to  see,  a  heart  that  can  be  broken. 
Chance  and  the  stirrings  of  a  long-gone  life  have  torn 
down  the  veil  age  spins  so  thick  and  fast.  Pride  and 
ambition;  what  dull  fools  men  are!  Effort  and  duty, 
what  dull  fools  men  are!'  He  listened  on  and 
on  to  these  phantom  pleadings  and  to  the  rather  coarse 
old  Lawford  conscience  grunting  them  mercilessly  down, 
too  weary  even  to  try  to  rest. 

Rooks  at  dawn  came  sweeping  beneath  the  turquoise 
of  the  sky.  He  saw  their  sharp-beaked  heads  turn  this 
way,  that  way,  as  they  floated  on  outspread  wings  across 
the  misty  world.  Except  for  the  hoarse  roar  of  the  water 
under  the  huge  thin-leafed  trees,  not  a  sound  was  stirring. 
'One  thing,'  he  seemed  to  hear  himself  mutter  as  he  turned 
with  a  shiver  from  the  morning  air,  'it  won't  be  for  long. 
You  can,  at  least,  poor  devil,  wait  the  last  act  out.'  If  in 
this  foolish  hustling  mob  of  the  world,  hired  anywhere 
and  anywhen  for  the  one  poor  dubious  wage  of  a  penny 
— if  it  was  only  his  own  small  dull  part  to  carry  a  mock 
spear,  and  shout  huzza,  with  the  rest — there  was  nothing 
for  it,  he  grunted  obstinately  to  himself,  shout  he  would 
with  the  loudest. 

He  threw  himself  on  to  the  bed  with  eyes  so  wearied 
with  want  of  sleep  it  seemed  they  had  lost  their  livelong 
skill  in  finding  it.  Not  the  echo  of  triumph  nor  even 
a  sigh  of  relief  stirred  the  torpor  of  his  mind.  He  knew 

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The  Return 

vaguely  that  what  had  been  the  misery  and  madness  of  the 
last  few  days  was  gone.  But  the  thought  had  no  power 
to  move  him  now.  Sheila's  good  sense,  and  Mr  Bethany's 
stubborn  loyalty  were  alike  old  stories  that  had  lost  their 
savour  and  meaning.  Gone,  too,  was  the  need  for  that 
portentous  family  gathering  that  had  sat  so  often  in 
his  fancy  during  these  last  few  days  around  his  dining- 
room  table,  discussing  with  futile  decorum  the  problem 
of  how  to  hush  him  up,  to  muffle  him  down.  Half  dream- 
ing, half  awake,  he  saw  the  familiar  door  slowly  open 
and,  like  the  timely  hero  in  a  melodrama,  his  own  figure 
appear  before  the  stricken  and  astonished  company. 
His  eyes  opened  half-fearfully,  and  glanced  up  in  the 
morning  twilight.  Their  perplexity  gave  place  to  a  quiet, 
almost  vacant  smile;  the  lids  slowly  closed  again,  and  at 
last  the  lean  hands  twitched  awhile  in  sleep. 

Next  morning  he  spent  rummaging  among  the  old 
books,  dipping  listlessly  here  and  there  as  the  tasteless 
fancy  took  him,  while  Herbert  sat  writing  with  serene 
face  and  lifted  eyebrows  at  his  open  window.  But  the 
unfamiliar  long  S's,  the  close  type,  and  the  spelling  of  the 
musty  old  books  wearied  eye  and  mind.  What  he  read, 
too,  however  far-fetched,  or  lively,  or  sententious,  or 
gross,  seemed  either  to  be  of  the  same  texture  as  what 
had  become  his  everyday  experience,  and  so  baffled  him 
with  its  nearness,  or  else  was  only  the  meaningless  ram- 
blings  of  an  idle  pen.  And  this,  he  thought  to  himself, 
looking  covertly  up  at  the  spruce  clear-cut  profile  at  the 
window,  this  is  what  Herbert  had  called  Life. 

'Am  I  interrupting  you,  Herbert;  are  you  very  busy?' 
he  asked  at  last,  taking  refuge  on  a  chair  in  a  far  corner  of 
the  room. 
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The  Return 

'Bless  me,  no ;  not  a  bit- — not  a  bit/  said  Herbert  ami- 
ably, laying  down  his  pen.  Tm  afraid  the  old  leather- 
jackets  have  been  boring  you.  It's  a  habit  this  beastly 
reading ;  this  gorge  and  glint  and  fever  all  at  second-hand 
— purely  a  bad  habit,  like  morphia,  like  laudanum.  But 
once  in,  you  know  there's  no  recovery.  Anyhow,  I'm 
neck-deep,  and  to  struggle  would  be  simply  to  drown/ 

'I  was  only  going  to  say  how  sorry  I  am  for  having 
left  Sabathier  at  home.' 

'My  dear  fellow '  began  Herbert  reassuringly. 

'It  was  only  because  I  wanted  so  very  much  to  have 
your  translation.  I  get  muddled  up  with  other  things 
groping  through  the  dictionary.' 

Herbert  surveyed  him  critically.  'What  exactly  is  your 
interest  now,  Law  ford?  You  don't  mean  that  my  old 
"theory"  has  left  any  sting  now  ?' 

'No  sting ;  oh  no.  I  was  only  curious.  But  you  your- 
self still  think  it  really,  don't  you?' 

Herbert  turned  for  a  moment  to  the  open  window. 

'I  was  simply  trying  then  to  find  something  to  fit  the 
facts  as  you  experienced  them.  But  now  that  the  facts 
have  gone — and  they  have,  haven't  they  ?— exit,  of  course, 
my  theory!' 

'I  see,'  was  the  cryptic  answer.  'And  yet,  Herbert,' 
Law  ford  solemnly  began  again,  'it  has  changed  me ;  even 
in  my  way  of  thinking.  When  I  shut  my  eyes  now — I 
only  discovered  it  by  chance — I  see  immediately  faces 
quite  strange  to  me;  or  places,  sometimes  thronged  with 
people;  and  once  an  old  well  with  some  one  sitting  in 
the  shadow.  I  can't  tell  you  how  clearly,  and  yet  it  is  all 
altogether  different  from  a  dream.  Even  when  I  sit 
with  my  eyes  open,  I  am  conscious,  as  it  were,  of  a  kind 

233 


The  Return 

of  faint,  colourless  mirage.  In  the  old  days — I  mean  be- 
fore Widderstone,  what  I  saw  was  only  what  I'd  seen 
already.  Nothing  came  uncalled  for,  unexplained.  This 
makes  the  old  life  seem  so  blank;  I  did  not  know  what 
extraordinarily  real  things  I  was  doing  without.  And 
whether  for  that  reason  or  another,  I  can't  quite  make 
out  what  in  fact  I  did  want  then,  and  was  always  fretting 
and  striving  for.  I  can  see  no  wisdom  or  purpose  in 
anything  now  but  to  get  to  one's  journey's  end  as  quickly 
and  bravely  as  one  can.  And  even  then,  even  if  we  do 
call  life  a  journey,  and  death  the  inn  we  shall  reach  at 
last  in  the  evening  when  it's  over;  that,  too,  I  feel  will 
be  only  as  brief  a  stopping-place  as  any  other  inn  would 
be.  Our  experience  here  is  so  scanty  and  shallow- — 
nothing  more  than  the  moment  of  the  continual  present. 
Surely  that  must  go  on,  even  if  one  does  call  it  eternity. 
And  so  we  shall  all  have  to  begin  again.  Probably 
Sabathier  himself.  .  .  .  But  there,  what  on  earth  are  we, 
Herbert,  when  all  is  said?  Who  is  it  has — has  done  all 
this  for  us — what  kind  of  self?  And  to  what  possible 
end?  Is  it  that  the  clockwork  has  been  wound  up  and 
must  still  jolt  on  a  while  with  jarring  wheels?  Will  it 
never  run  down,  do  you  think?' 

Herbert  smiled  faintly,  but  made  no  answer. 

'You  see/  continued  Lawford,  in  the  same  quiet,  dis- 
passionate undertone,  'I  wouldn't  mind  if  it  was  only  my- 
self. But  there  are  so  many  of  us,  so  many  selves,  I 
mean;  and  they  all  seem  to  have  a  voice  in  the  matter. 
What  is  the  reality  to  this  infernal  dream  ?" 

'The  reality  is,  Lawford,  that  you  are  fretting  your  life 
out  over  this  rotten  illusion.  Be  guided  by  me  just 
this  once.  We'll  go,  all  three  of  us,  a  good  ten-mile  walk 
234 


The  Return 

to-day,  and  thoroughly  tire  you  out.  And  to-night  you 
shall  sleep  here — a  really  sound,  refreshing  sleep.  Then 
to-morrow,  whole  and  hale,  back  you  shall  go;  honestly. 
It's  only  professional  strong  men  should  ask  questions. 
Babes  like  you  and  me  must  keep  to  slops.' 

So,  though  Lawford  made  no  answer,  it  was  agreed. 
Before  noon  the  three  of  them  had  set  out  on  their  walk 
across  the  fields.  And  after  rambling  on  just  as  caprice 
took  them,  past  reddening  blackberry  bushes  and  copses 
of  hazel,  and  flaming  beech,  they  sat  down  to  spread  out 
their  meal  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  overlooking  quiet 
ploughed  fields  and  grazing  cattle.  Herbert  stretched  him- 
self with  his  back  to  the  earth,  and  his  placid  face  to  the 
pale  vacant  sky,  while  Lawford,  even  more  dispirited  after 
his  walk,  wandered  up  to  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  upon  the  other  side,  lay  a  farm 
and  its  out-buildings,  and  a  pool  of  water  beneath  a  group 
of  elms.  It  was  vacant  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  water 
vividly  green  with  a  scum  of  weed.  And  about  half  a  mile 
beyond  stood  a  cluster  of  cottages  and  an  old  towered 
church.  He  gazed  idly  down,  listening  vaguely  to  the 
wailing  of  a  curlew  flitting  anxiously  to  and  fro  above  the 
broken  solitude  of  its  green  hill.  And  it  seemed  as  if  a 
thin  and  dark  cloud  began  to  be  quietly  withdrawn  from 
over  his  eyes.  Hill  and  wailing  cry  and  barn  and  water 
faded  out.  And  he  was  staring  as  if  in  an  endless  still- 
ness at  an  open  window  against  which  the  sun  was  beat- 
ing in  a  bristling  torrent  of  gold,  while  out  of  the 
garden  beyond  came  the  voice  of  some  evening  bird  sing- 
ing with  such  an  unspeakable  ecstasy  of  grief  it  seemed  it 
must  be  perched  upon  the  confines  of  another  world.  The 
light  gathered  to  a  radiance  almost  intolerable,  driving 

235 


The  Return 

back  with  its  raining  beams  some  memory,  forlorn,  re- 
morseless, remote.  His  body  stood  dark  and  senseless, 
rocking  in  the  air  on  the  hillside  as  if  bereft  of  its  spirit. 
Then  his  hands  were  drawn  over  his  eyes.  He  turned 
unsteadily  and  made  his  way,  as  if  through  a  thick,  driz- 
zling haze,  slowly  back. 

'What  is  that — there?'  he  said  almost  menacingly, 
standing  with  bloodshot  eyes  looking  down  upon  Herbert. 

"That!" — what?'  said  Herbert,  glancing  up  startled 
from  his  book.  'Why,  what's  wrong,  Lawford?' 

'That,'  said  Lawford  sullenly,  yet  with  a  faintly  mourn- 
ful cadence  in  his  voice;  'those  fields  and  that  old  empty 
farm — that  village  over  there?  Why  did  you  bring  me 
here?' 

Grisel  had  not  stirred.     'The  village  .  .  .' 

'Ssh!'  she  said,  catching  her  brother's  sleeve;  'that's 
Detcham,  yes,  Detcham.' 

Lawford  turned  wide  vacant  eyes  on  her.  He  shook 
his  head  and  shuddered.  'No,  no ;  not  Detcham.  I  know 
it;  I  know  it;  but  it  has  gone  out  of  my  mind.  Not 
Detcham ;  I've  been  there  before ;  don't  look  at  me.  Hor- 
rible, horrible.  It  takes  me  back — I  can't  think.  I  stood 
there,  trying,  trying;  it's  all  in  a  blur.  Don't  ask  me — 
a  dream.' 

Grisel  leaned  forward  and  touched  his  hand.  'Don't 
think ;  don't  even  try.  Why  should  you  ?  We  can't ;  we 
mustn't  go  back.' 

Lawford,  still  gazing  fixedly,  turned  again  a  darkened 
face  towards  the  steep  of  the  hill.  'I  think,  you  know,' 
he  said,  stooping  and  whispering,  'he  would  know — the 
window  and  the  sun  and  the  singing.  And  oh,  of  course 
it  was  too  late.  You  understand — too  late.  And  once 
236 


The  Return 

.  .  .  you  can't  go  back;  oh  no.  You  won't  leave  me? 
You  see,  if  you  go,  it  would  only  be  all  ...  I  could  not 
be  quite  so  alone.  But  Detcham — Detcham  ?  perhaps  you 
will  not  trust  me — tell  me?  That  was  not  the  name.' 
He  shuddered  violently  and  turned  dog-like  beseeching 
eyes.  'To-morrow— yes,  to-morrow,'  he  said,  'I  will 
promise  anything  if  you  will  not  leave  me  now. 

Once '  But  again  the  thread  running  so  faintly 

through  that  inextricable  maze  of  memory  eluded  him. 
'So  long  as  you  won't  leave  me  now!'  he  implored  her. 

She  was  vainly  trying  to  win  back  her  composure,  and 
could  not  answer  him  at  once.  .  .  . 

In  the  evening  after  supper  Grisel  sat  her  guest  down  in 
front  of  a  big  wood  fire  in  the  old  book-room,  where, 
staring  into  the  playing  flames,  he  could  fall  at  peace  into 
the  almost  motionless  reverie  which  he  seemed  merely  to 
harass  and  weary  himself  by  trying  to  disperse.  She 
opened  the  little  piano  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  and 
played  on  and  on  as  fancy  led — Chopin  and  Beethoven, 
a  fugue  from  Bach,  and  lovely  forlorn  old  English  airs, 
till  the  music  seemed  not  only  a  voice  persuading,  ponder- 
ing, and  lamenting,  but  gathered  about  itself  the  hollow 
surge  of  the  water  and  the  darkness ;  wistful  and  clear,  as 
the  thoughts  of  a  solitary  child.  Ever  and  again  a  log 
burnt  through  its  strength,  and  falling  amid  sparks,  stirred, 
like  a  restless  animal,  the  stillness;  or  Herbert  in  his 
corner  lifted  his  head  to  glance  towards  his  visitor,  and 
to  turn  another  page.  At  last  the  music,  too,  fell  silent, 
and  Lawford  stood  up  with  his  candle  in  his  hand  and 
eyed  with  a  strange  fixity  brother  and  sister.  His  glance 
wandered  slowly  round  the  quiet  flame-lit  room. 

'You  won't,'  he  said,  stooping  towards  them  as  if  in 

237 


The  Return 

extreme  confidence,  'you  won't  much  notice  ?  They  come 
and  go.  I  try  not  to— to  speak.  It's  the  only  way 
through.  It  is  not  that  I  don't  know  they're  only  dreams. 
But  if  once  the — the  others  thought  there  had  been  any 
tampering' — he  tapped  his  forehead  meaningly — 'here: 
if  once  they  thought  that,  it  would,  you  know,  be  quite 
over  then.  How  could  I  prove  .  .  .  ?'  He  turned  cau- 
tiously towards  the  door,  and  with  laborious  significance 
nodded  his  head  at  them. 

Herbert  bent  down  and  held  out  his  long  hands  to  the 
fire.  'Tampering,  my  dear  chap :  That's  what  the  lump 
said  to  the  leaven.' 

'Yes,  yes/  said  Lawford,  putting  out  his  hand,  'but 
you  know  what  I  mean,  Herbert.  Anything  I  tried  to  do 
then  would  be  quite,  quite  hopeless.  That  would  be 
poisoning  the  wells.' 

They  watched  him  out  of  the  room,  and  listened  till 
quite  distinctly  in  the  still  night-shaded  house  they  heard 
his  door  gently  close.  Then,  as  if  by  consent,  they  turned 
and  looked  long  and  questioningly  into  each  other's  faces. 

'Then  you  are  not — afraid?'  Herbert  said  quietly. 

Grisel  gazed  steadily  on,  and  almost  imperceptibly  shook 
her  head. 

'You  mean?'  he  questioned  her;  but  still  he  had  again 
to  read  her  answer  in  her  eyes. 

'Oh,  very  well,  Grisel/  he  said  quietly,  'you  know  best/ 
and  returned  once  more  to  his  writing. 

For  an  hour  or  two  Lawford  slept  heavily,  so  heavily 
that  when  a  little  after  midnight  he  awoke,  with  his  face 
towards  the  uncurtained  window,  though  for  many  min- 
utes he  lay  brightly  confronting  all  Orion,  that  from 
blazing  helm  to  flaming  dog  at  heel  filled  high  the  glimmer- 
238 


The  Return 

ing  square,  he  could  not  lift  or  stir  his  cold  and  leaden 
limbs.  He  rose  at  last  and  threw  off  the  burden  of 
his  bedclothes,  and  rested  awhile,  as  if  freed  from  the 
heaviness  of  an  unrememberable  nightmare.  But  so  clear 
was  his  mind  and  so  extraordinarily  refreshed  he  seemed 
in  body  that  sleep  for  many  hours  would  not  return 
again.  And  he  spent  almost  all  the  remainder  of  the 
lagging  darkness  pacing  softly  to  and  fro ;  one  face  only 
before  his  eyes,  the  one  sure  thing,  the  one  thing  unattain- 
able in  a  world  of  phantoms. 

Herbert  waited  on  in  vain  for  his  guest  next  morning, 
and  after  wandering  up  and  down  the  mossy  lawn  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  went  off  cheerfully  at  last  alone 
for  his  dip.  When  he  returned  Lawford  was  in  his 
place  at  the  breakfast-table.  He  sat  on,  moody  and  con- 
strained, until  even  Herbert's  haphazard  talk  trickled 
low. 

'I  fancy  my  sister  is  nursing  a  headache,'  he  said  at 
last,  'but  she'll  be  down  soon.  And  I'm  afraid  from  the 
looks  of  you,  Lawford,  your  night  was  not  particularly 
restful.'  He  felt  his  way  very  needfully.  'Perhaps  we 
walked  you  a  little  too  far  yesterday.  We  are  so  used 

to  tramping  that '  Lawford  kept  thoughtful  eyes 

fixed  on  the  deprecating  face. 

'I  see  what  it  is,  Herbert — you  are  humouring  me  again. 
I  have  been  wracking  my  brains  in  vain  to  remember  what 
exactly  did  happen  yesterday.  I  feel  as  if  it  was  all 
sunk  oceans  deep  in  sleep.  I  get  so  far — and  then  I'm 
done.  It  won't  give  up  a  hint.  But  you  really  mustn't 
think  I'm  an  invalid,  or — or  in  my  second  childhood.  The 
truth  is,'  he  added,  'it's  only  my  first,  come  back  again. 
But  now  that  I've  got  so  far,  now  that  I'm  really  better, 

239 


The  Return 

I '  He  broke  off  rather  vacantly,  as  if  afraid  of 

his  own  confidence.  'I  must  be  getting  on,'  he  summed 
up  with  an  effort,  'and  that's  the  solemn  fact.  I  keep 
on  forgetting  I'm — I'm  a  ratepayer!' 

Herbert  sat  round  in  his  chair.  'You  see,  Lawford, 
the  very  term  is  little  else  than  Double-dutch  to  me.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  Grisel  sends  all  my  hush-money  to  the 
horrible  people  that  do  the  cleaning  up,  as  it  were.  I 
can't  catch  their  drift.  Government  to  me  is  merely  the 
spectacle  of  the  clever,  or  the  specious,  managing  the  dull. 
It  deals  merely  with  the  physical,  and  just  the  fringe 
of  consciousness.  I  am  not  joking.  I  think  I  follow 
you.  All  I  mean  is  that  the  obligations — mainly  tepid,  I 
take  it — that  are  luring  you  back  to  the  fold  would  be  the 
very  ones  that  would  scare  me  quickest  off.  The  imagina- 
tion, the  appeal  faded:  we're  dead.' 

Lawford  opened  his  mouth;  'Temporarily  tepid,'  he  at 
last  all  but  coughed  out. 

'Oh  yes,  of  course,'  said  Herbert  intelligently.  'Only 
temporarily.  It's  this  beastly  gregariousness  that's  the 
devil.  The  very  thought  of  it  undoes  me — with  an  ab- 
solute shock  of  sheepishness.  I  suddenly  realise  my  hu- 
man nakedness :  that  here  we  are,  little  better  than  naked 
animals,  bleating  behind  our  illusory  wattles  on  the  slopes 
of — of  infinity.  And  nakedness,  after  all,  is  a  whole- 
some thing  to  realize  only  when  one  thinks  too  much  of 
one's  clothes.  I  peer  sometimes,  feebly  enough,  out  of  my 
wool,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  all  these  busybodies,  all 
these  fact-devourers,  all  this  news-reading  rabble,  are 
nothing  brighter  than  very  dull-witted  children  trying  to 
play  an  imaginative  game,  much  too  deep  for  their  poor 
240 


The  Return 

reasons.  I  don't  mean  that  your  wanting  to  go  home  is 
anything  gregarious,  but  I  do  think  their  insisting  on  your 
coming  back  at  once  might  be.  And  I  know  you  won't 
visit  this  stuff  on  me  as  anything  more  than  just  my 
"scum,"  as  Grisel  calls  the  fine  flower  of  my  maiden  medi- 
tations. All  that  I  really  want  to  say  is  that  we  should 
both  be  more  than  delighted  if  you'd  stay  just  as  long 
as  it  will  not  be  a  bore  for  you  to  stay.  Stay  till  you're 
heartily  tired  of  us.  Go  back  now,  if  you  must;  tell  them 
how  much  better  you  are.  Bolt  off  to  a  nerve  specialist. 
He'll  say  complete  rest — change  of  scene,  and  all  that. 
They  all  do.  Instinct  via  intellect.  And  why  not  take 
your  rest  here?  We  are  such  miserably  dull  company  to 
one  another  it  would  be  a  greater  pleasure  to  have  you 
with  us  than  I  can  say.  I  mean  it  from  the  very  bottom 
of  my  heart.  Do !' 

Law  ford  listened.  'I  wish- /  he  began,  and  stopped 

dead  again.  'Anyhow,  I'll  go  back.  I  am  afraid,  Her- 
bert, I've  been  playing  truant.  It  was  all  very  well 

while To  tell  you  the  truth  I  can't  think  quite 

straight  yet.  But  it  won't  last  for  ever.  Besides — well, 
anyhow,  I'll  go  back.' 

'Right  you  are,'  said  Herbert,  pretending  to  be  cheer- 
ful. 'You  can't  expect,  you  really  can't,  everything  to 
come  right  straight  away.  Just  have  patience.  And  now, 
let's  go  out  and  sit  in  the  sun.  They've  mixed  Septem- 
ber up  with  May.' 

And  about  half  an  hour  afterwards  he  glanced  up 
from  his  book  to  find  his  visitor  fast  asleep  in  his  garden 
chair. 

Grisel  had  taken  her  brother's  place,  with  a  little  pile  of 

241 


The  Return 

needlework  beside  her  on  the  grass,  when  Lawford  again 
opened  his  eyes  under  the  rosy  shade  of  a  parasol.  He 
watched  her  for  a  while,  without  speaking. 

'How  long  have  I  been  asleep  ?'  he  said  at  last. 

She  started  and  looked  up  from  her  needle. 

'That  depends  on  how  long  you  have  been  awake/  she 
said,  smiling.  'My  brother  tells  me,'  she  went  on,  be- 
ginning to  stitch,  'that  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to 
leave  us  to-day.  Perhaps  we  are  only  flattering  ourselves 
it  has  been  a  rest.  But  if  it  has — is  that,  do  you  think, 
quite  wise?' 

He  leant  forward  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  'It's 
because — it's  because  it's  the  only  "must"  I  can  see.' 

'But  even  "musts" — well,  we  have  to  be  sure  even  of 
"musts,"  haven't  we?  Are  you?'  She  glanced  up  and 
for  an  instant  their  eyes  met,  and  the  falling  water  seemed 
to  be  sounding  out  of  a  distance  so  remote  it  might  be 
but  the  echo  of  a  dream.  She  stooped  once  more  over 
her  work. 

'Supposing,'  he  said  very  slowly,  and  almost  as  if 
speaking  to  himself,  'supposing  Sabathier — and  you  know 
he's  merely  like  a  friend  now  one  mustn't  be  seen  talking 
to — supposing  he  came  back;  what  then?' 

'Oh,  but  Sabathier's  gone:  he  never  really  came.  It 
was  only  a  fancy — a  mood.  It  was  only  you — another 
you.' 

'Who  was  that  yesterday,  then?' 

She  glanced  at  him  swiftly  and  knew  the  question  was 
but  a  venture. 

'Yesterday?' 

'Oh,  very  well,'  he  said  fretfully,  'you  too !     But  if  he 
did,  if  he  did,  come  really  back:  "prey"  and  all?' 
242 


The  Return 

'What  is  the  riddle  ?'  she  said,  taking  a  deep  breath  and 
facing  him  brightly. 

'Would  my  "must"  still  be  his?'  The  face  he  raised 
to  her,  as  he  leaned  forward  under  the  direct  light  of  the 
sun,  was  so  colourless,  cadaverous  and  haggard,  the 
thought  crossed  her  mind  that  it  did  indeed  seem  little 
more  than  a  shadowy  mask  that  but  one  hour  of  darkness 
might  dispel. 

'You  said,  you  know,  we  did  win  through.  Why  then 
should  we  be  even  thinking  of  defeat  now  ?' 

'  "We" !' 

'Oh  no,  you !'  she  cried  triumphantly. 

'You  do  not  answer  my  question.' 

'Nor  you  mine!  It  was  a  glorious  victory.  Is  there 
the  ghost  of  a  reason  why  you  should  cast  your  mind  back  ? 
Is  there,  now?* 

'Only,'  said  Law  ford,  looking  patiently  up  into  her 
face,  'only  because  I  love  you' :  and  listened  in  the  silence 
to  the  words  as  one  may  watch  a  bird  that  has  escaped  for 
ever  and  irrevocably  out  of  its  cage,  steadily  flying  on  and 
on  till  lost  to  sight. 

For  an  instant  the  grey  eyes  faltered.  'But  that, 
surely/  she  began  in  a  low  voice,  still  steadily  sewing, 
'that  was  our  compact  last  night — that  you  should  let  me 
help,  that  you  should  trust  me  just  as  you  trusted  the 
mother  years  ago  who  came  in  the  little  cart  with  the 
shaggy  dusty  pony  to  the  homesick  boy  watching  at  the 
window.  Perhaps,'  she  added,  her  fingers  trembling,  'in 
this  odd  shuffle  of  souls  and  faces,  I  am  that  mother,  and 
most  frightfully  anxious  you  should  not  give  in.  Why, 
even  because  of  the  tiredness,  even  because  the  cause  seems 
vain,  you  must  still  fight  on — wouldn't  she  have  said  it? 

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The  Return 

Surely  there  are  prizes,  a  daughter,  a  career,  no  end! 
And  even  they  gone — still  the  self  undimmed,  undaunted, 
that  took  its  drubbing  like  a  man.' 

'I  know  you  know  I'm  all  but  crazed;  you  see  this 
wretched  mind  all  littered  and  broken  down;  look  at  me 
like  that,  then.  Forget  even  you  have  befriended  me 

and  pretended Why  must  I  blunder  on  and  on  like 

this?  Oh,  Grisel,  my  friend,  my  friend,  if  only  you 
loved  me !' 

Tears  clouded  her  eyes.  She  turned  vaguely  as  if  for  a 
hiding-place.  'We  can't  talk  here.  How  mad  the  day 
is.  Listen,  listen!  I  do — I  do  love  you — mother  and 
woman  and  friend — from  the  very  moment  you  came. 
It's  all  so  clear,  so  clear :  that,  and  your  miserable  "must," 
my  friend.  Come,  we  will  go  away  by  ourselves  a  little, 
and  talk.  That  way.  I'll  meet  you  by  the  gate/ 


244 


Chapter  Twenty-One 

SHE  came  out  into  the  sunlight,  and  they  went 
through  the  little  gate  together.  She  walked 
quickly,  without  speaking,  over  the  bridge,  past  a 
little  cottage  whose  hollyhocks  leaned  fading  above  its 
low  flint  wall.  Skirting  a  field  of  stubble,  she  struck  into 
a  wood  by  a  path  that  ran  steeply  up  the  hillside.  And 
by  and  by  they  came  to  a  glen  where  the  woodmen  of  a 
score  of  years  ago  had  felled  the  trees,  leaving  a  green 
hollow  of  saplings  in  the  midst  of  their  towering  neigh- 
bours. 

'There,'  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  to  him,  'now 
we  are  alone.  Just  six  hours  or  so — and  then  the  sun  will 
be  there,'  she  pointed  to  the  tree-tops  to  the  west,  'and  then 
you  will  have  to  go ;  for  good,  for  good — you  your  way, 
and  I  mine.  What  a  tangle — a  tangle  is  this  life  of  ours. 
Could  I  have  dreamt  we  should  ever  be  talking  like  this, 
you  and  I?  Friends  of  an  hour.  What  will  you  think 
of  me?  Does  it  matter?  Don't  speak.  Say  nothing — 
poor  face,  poor  hands.  If  only  there  were  something  to 
look  to — to  pray  to !'  She  bent  over  his  hand  and  pressed 
it  to  her  breast.  'What  worlds  we've  seen  together,  you 
and  I.  And  then — another  parting.' 

They  wandered  on  a  little  way,  and  came  back  and  lis- 
ened  to  the  first  few  birds  that  flew  up  into  the  higher 
branches,  noonday  being  past,  to  sing. 

They  talked,  and  were  silent,  and  talked  again;  with- 

245 


The  Return 

out  question,  or  sadness,  or  regret,  or  reproach;  she 
mocking  even  at  themselves,  mocking  at  this  'change'' — 
'Why,  and  yet  without  it,  would  you  ever  even  have 
dreamed  once  a  poor  fool  of  a  Frenchman  went  to  his 
restless  grave  for  me — for  me?  Need  we  understand? 
Were  we  told  to  pry?  Who  made  us  human  must  be 
human  too.  Why  must  we  take  such  care,  and  make  such 
a  fret — this  soul  ?  I  know  it,  I  know  it ;  it  is  all  we  have 
— "to  save,"  they  say,  poor  creatures.  No,  never  to 
spend,  and  so  they  daren't  for  a  solitary  instant  lift  it  on 
the  finger  from  its  cage.  Well,  we  have ;  and  now,  soon, 
back  it  must  go,  back  it  must  go,  and  try  its  best  to 
whistle  the  day  out.  And  yet,  do  you  know,  perhaps  the 
very  freedom  does  a  little  shake  its — its  monotony.  It's 
true,  you  see,  they  have  lived  a  long  time ;  these  Worldly 
Wisef oik ;  they  were  wise  before  they  were  swaddled.  .  .  . 

'There,  and  you  are  hungry?'  she  asked  him,  laughing 
in  his  eyes.  'Of  course,  of  course  you  are — scarcely  a 
mouthful  since  that  first  still  wonderful  supper.  And  you 
haven't  slept  a  wink,  except  like  a  tired-out  child  after 
its  first  party,  on  that  old  garden  chair.  I  sat  and 
watched,  and  yes,  almost  hoped  you'd  never  wake  in  case 
— in  case.  Come  along,  see,  down  there.  I  can't  go 
home  just  yet.  There's  a  little  old  inn — we'll  go  and  sit 
down  there — as  if  we  were  really  trying  to  be  romantic ! 
I  know  the  woman  quite  well ;  we  can  talk  there — just  the 
day  out.' 

They  sat  at  a  little  table  in  the  garden  of  'The  Cherry 
Trees,'  its  thick  green  apple  branches  burdened  with 
ripened  fruit.  And  Grisel  tried  to  persuade  him  to  eat 
and  drink,  'for  to-morrow  we  die,'  she  said,  her  hands 
246 


The  Return 

trembling,  her  face  as  it  were  veiled  with  a  faint  mys- 
terious light. 

'There  are  dozens  and  dozens  of  old  stories,  you  know,' 
she  said,  leaning  on  her  elbows,  'dozens  and  dozens, 
meaning  only  us.  You  must,  you  must  eat;  look,  just 
an  apple.  We've  got  to  say  good-bye.  And  faintness  will 
double  the  difficulty/  She  lightly  touched  his  hand  as  if 
to  compel  him  to  smile  with  her.  'There,  I'll  peel  it; 
and  this  is  Eden ;  and  soon  it  will  be  the  cool  of  the  eve- 
ning. And  then,  oh  yes,  the  voice  will  come.  What 
nonsense  I  am  talking.  Never  mind.' 

They  sat  on  in  the  quiet  sunshine,  and  a  spider  slid 
softly  through  the  air  and  with  busy  claws  set  to  its  nets ; 
and  those  small  ghosts  the  robins  went  whistling  rest- 
lessly among  the  heavy  boughs. 

A  child  presently  came  out  of  the  porch  of  the  inn  into 
the  garden,  and  stood  with  its  battered  doll  in  its  arms, 
softly  watching  them  awhile.  But  when  Grisel  smiled  and 
tried  to  coax  her  over,  she  burst  out  laughing  and  ran  in 
again. 

Law  ford  stooped  forward  on  his  chair  with  a  groan. 
'You  see,'  he  said,  'the  whole  world  mocks  me.  You  say 
"this  evening";  need  it  be,  must  it  be  this  evening?  If 
you  only  knew  how  far  they  have  driven  me.  If  you 
only  knew  what  we  should  only  detest  each  other  for  say- 
ing and  for  listening  to.  The  whole  thing's  dulled  and 
staled.  Who  wants  a  changeling  ?  Who  wants  a  painted 
bird?  Who  does  not  loathe  the  converted? — and  I — 
I'm  converted  to  Sabathier's  God.  Should  we  be  sitting 
here  talking  like  this  if  it  were  not  so?  I  can't,  I  can't 
go  back.' 

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The  Return 

She  rose  and  stood  with  her  hand  pressed  over  her 
mouth,  watching  him. 

'Won't  you  understand?'  he  continued.  'I  am  an  out- 
cast-— a  felon  caught  red-handed,  come  in  the  flesh  to  a 
hideous  and  righteous  judgment.  I  hear  myself  saying  all 
these  things;  and  yet,  Grisel,  I  do,  I  do  love  you  with 
all  the  dull  best  I  ever  had.  Not  now,  then ;  I  don't  ask 
new  even.  I  can,  I  would  begin  again.  God  knows 
my  face  has  changed  enough  even  as  it  is.  Think  of  me 
as  that  poor  wandering  ghost  of  yours;  how  easily  I 
could  hide  away — in  your  memory ;  and  just  wait,  wait  for 
you.  In  time  even  this  wild  futile  madness  too  would 
fade  away.  Then  I  could  come  back.  May  I  try?' 

'I  can't  answer  you.  I  can't  reason.  Only,  still,  I  do 
know,  talk,  put  off,  forget  as  I  may,  must  is  must. 
Right  and  wrong,  who  knows  what  they  mean,  except 
that  one's  to  be  done  and  one's  to  be  forsworn;  or — 
forgive,  my  friend,  the  truest  thing  I  ever  said — or  else 
we  lose  the  savour  of  both.  Oh,  then,  and  I  know,  too, 
you'd  weary  of  me.  I  know  you,  Monsieur  Nicholas, 
better  than  you  can  ever  know  yourself,  though  you  have 
risen  from  your  grave.  You  follow  a  dream,  no  voice  or 
face  or  flesh  and  blood;  and  not  to  do  what  the  one  old 
raven  within  you  cries  you  must,  would  be  in  time  to 
hate  the  very  sound  of  my  footsteps.  You  shall  go 
back,  poor  turncoat,  and  face  the  clearness,  the  utterly 
more  difficult,  bald,  and  heartless  clearness,  as  together 
we  faced  the  dark.  Life  is  a  little  while.  And  though 
I  have  no  words  to  tell  what  always  are  and  must  be 
foolish  reasons  because  they  are  not  reasons  at  all  but 
ghosts  of  memory,  I  know  in  my  heart  that  to  face 
the  worst  is  your  only  hope  of  peace.  Should  I  have 
248 


The  Return 

staked  so  much  on  your  finding  that,  and  now  throw  up 
the  game  ?  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more.  I'll  walk  half  the 
way,  perhaps.  Perhaps  I  will  walk  all  the  way.  I  think 
my  brother  guesses — at  least  my  madness.  I've  talked 
and  talked  him  nearly  past  his  patience.  And  then,  when 
you  are  quite  safely,  oh  yes,  quite  safely  and  soundly  gone, 
then  I  shall  go  away  for  a  little,  so  that  we  can't  even 
hear  each  other  speak,  except  in  dreams.  Life ! — well, 
I  always  thought  it  was  much  too  plain  a  tale  to  have 
as  dull  an  ending.  And  with  us  the  powers  beyond  have 
played  a  newer  trick,  that's  all.  Another  hour,  and  we 
will  go.  Till  then  there's  just  the  solitary  walk  home  and 
only  the  dull  old  haunted  house  that  hoards  as  many 
ghosts  as  we  ourselves  to  watch  our  coming.' 

Evening  began  to  shine  between  the  trees ;  they  seemed 
to  stand  aflame,  with  a  melancholy  rapture  in  their  up- 
lifted boughs  above  their  fading  coats.  The  fields  of  the 
garnered  harvest  shone  with  a  golden  stillness,  awhir  with 
shimmering  flocks  of  starlings.  And  the  old  birds  that 
had  sung  in  the  spring  sang  now  amid  the  same  leaves, 
grown  older  too  to  give  them  harbourage. 

Herbert  was  sitting  in  his  room  when  they  returned, 
nursing  his  teacup  on  his  knee  while  he  pretended  to  be 
reading,  with  elbow  propped  on  the  table. 

'Here's  Nicholas  Sabathier,  my  dear,  come  to  say  good- 
bye awhile,'  said  Grisel.  She  stood  for  a  moment  in  her 
white  gown,  her  face  turned  towards  the  clear  green  twi- 
light of  the  open  window.  'I  have  promised  to  walk  part 
of  the  way  with  him.  But  I  think  first  we  must  have 
some  tea.  No;  he  flatly  refuses  to  be  driven.  We  are 
going  to  walk.' 

The  two  friends  were  left  alone,  face  to  face  with  a 

249 


The  Return 

rather  difficult  silence,  only  the  least  degree  of  nervous- 
ness apparent,  so  far  as  Herbert  was  concerned,  in  that 
odd  aloof  sustained  air  of  impersonality  that  had  so  baffled 
his  companion  in  their  first  queer  talk  together. 

'Your  sister  said  just  now,  Herbert/  blurted  Law  ford  at 
last.  '  "Here's  Nicholas  Sabathier  come  to  say  good-bye" : 
well,  I — what  I  want  you  to  understand  is  that  it  is 
Sabathier,  the  worst  he  ever  was;  but  also  that  it  is 
"good-bye." ' 

Herbert  slowly  turned.  'I  don't  quite  see  why  "good- 
bye," Law  ford.  And — frankly,  there  is  nothing  to 
explain.  We  have  chosen  to  live  such  a  very  out-of-the- 
way  life,'  he  went  on,  as  if  following  up  a  train  of 
thought.  .  .  .  'The  truth  is  if  one  wants  to  live  at  all — 
one's  own  life,  I  mean — there's  no  time  for  many  friends. 
And  just  steadfastly  regarding  your  neighbour's  tail  as 
you  follow  it  down  into  the  Nowhere — it's  that  that 
seems  to  me  the  deadliest  form  of  hypnotism.  One  must 
simply  go  one's  own  way,  doing  one's  best  to  free  one's 
mind  of  cant — and  I  dare  say  clearing  some  excellent 
stuff  out  with  the  rubbish.  One  runs  that  risk.  And  the 
consequence  is  that  I  don't  think,  however  foolhardy  it 
may  be  to  say  so,  I  don't  think  I  care  a  groat  for  any 
opinion  as  human  as  my  own,  good  or  bad.  My  sister's 
a  million  times  a  better  woman  than  I  am  a  man.  What 
possibly  could  there  be,  then,  for  me  to  say  ?'  He  turned 
with  a  nervous  smile.  'Why  should  it  be  good-bye  ?' 

Law  ford  glanced  involuntarily  towards  the  door  that 
stood  in  shadow  duskily  ajar.  'Well,'  he  said,  'we  have 
talked,  and  we  think  it  must  be  that,  until,  at  least,'  he 
smiled  faintly,  'I  can  come  as  quietly  as  your  old  ghost 
250 


The  Return 

you  told  me  of ;  and  in  that  case  it  may  not  be  so  very 
long  to  wait.' 

Their  eyes  met  fleetingly  across  the  still,  listening 
room.  'The  more  I  think  of  it,'  Law  ford  pushed  slowly 
on,  'the  less  I  understand  the  frantic  purposelessness  of 
all  that  has  happened  to  me.  Until  I  went  down,  as  you 
said,  "a  godsend  of  a  little  Miss  Muffet,"  and  the  incon- 
ceivable farce  came  off,  I  was  fairly  happy,  fairly  con- 
tented to  dance  my  little  wooden  dance  and  wait  till  the 
showman  should  put  me  down  into  his  box  again.  And 
now — well,  here  I  am.  The  whole  thing  has  gone  by  and 
scarcely  left  a  trace  of  its  visit.  Here  I  am  for  all  my 
friends  to  swear  to;  and  yet,  Herbert,  if  you'll  forgive 
me  troubling  you  with  this  stuff  about  myself,  not  a 
single  belief,  or  thought,  or  desire  remains  unchanged. 
You  will  remember  all  that,  I  hope.  It's  not,  of  course, 
the  ghost  of  an  apology,  only  the  mere  facts.' 

Herbert  rose  and  paced  slowly  across  to  the  window. 
'The  longer  I  live,  Lawford,  the  more  I  curse  this  futile 
gift  of  speech.  Here  am  I,  wanting  to  tell  you,  to  say 
out  frankly  what,  if  mind  could  appeal  direct  to  mind, 
would  be  merely  as  the  wind  passing  through  the  leaves 
of  a  tree  with  just  one — one  multitudinous  rustle,  but 
which,  if  I  tried  to  put  into  words — well,  daybreak  would 
find  us  still  groping  on.  .  .  .'  He  turned ;  a  peculiar  wry 
smile  on  his  face.  'It's  a  dumb  world :  but  there  we  are. 
And  some  day  you'll  come  again.' 

'Well,'  said  Lawford,  as  if  with  an  almost  hopeless 
effort  to  turn  thought  into  such  primitive  speech,  'that's 
where  we  stand,  then.'  He  got  up  suddenly  like  a  man 
awakened  in  the  midst  of  unforeseen  danger,  'Where  is 

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The  Return 

your  sister?'  he  cried,  looking  into  the  shadow.  And 
as  if  in  actual  answer  to  his  entreaty,  they  heard  the  clink- 
ing of  the  cups  on  the  little,  old,  green  lacquer  tray  she  was 
at  that  moment  carrying  into  the  room.  She  sat  down  on 
the  window  seat  and  put  the  tray  down  beside  her.  'It 
will  be  before  dark  even  now/  she  said,  glancing  out  at 
the  faintly  burning  skies. 

They  had  trudged  on  together  with  almost  as  deep  a 
sense  of  physical  exhaustion  as  peasants  have  who  have 
been  labouring  in  the  fields  since  daybreak.  And  a  little 
beyond  the  village,  before  the  last,  long  road  began  that 
led  in  presently  to  the  housed  and  scrupulous  suburb,  she 
stopped  with  a  sob  beside  an  old  scarred  milestone  by  the 
wayside.  'This — is  as  far  as  I  can  go/  she  said.  She 
stooped,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  cold  moss-grown  surface 
of  the  stone.  'Even  now  it's  wet  with  dew.'  She  rose 
again  and  looked  strangely  into  his  face.  'Yes,  yes,  here 
it  is/  she  said,  'oh,  and  worse,  worse  than  any  fear. 
But  nothing  now  can  trouble  you  again  of  that.  We're 
both  at  least  past  that.' 

'Grisel/  he  said,  'forgive  me,  but  I  can't — I  can't  go  on.' 

'Don't  think,  don't  think/  she  said,  taking  his  hands, 
and  lifting  them  to  her  bosom.  'It's  only  how  the  day 
goes;  and  it  has  all,  my  one  dear,  happened  scores  and 
scores  of  times  before — mother  and  child  and  friend — and 
lovers  that  are  all  these  too,  like  us.  We  mustn't  cry  out. 
Perhaps  it  was  all  before  even  we  could  speak — this 
sorrow  came.  Take  all  the  hope  and  all  the  future :  and 
then  may  come  our  chance.' 

'What's  life  to  me  now.  You  said  the  desire  would 
come  back;  that  I  should  shake  myself  free.  I  could  if 
you  would  help  me.  I  don't  know  what  you  are  or  what 
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The  Return 

your  meaning  is,  only  that  I  love  you;  care  for  nothing, 
wish  for  nothing  but  to  see  you  and  think  of  you.  A  flat, 
dull  voice  keeps  saying  that  I  have  no  right  to  be 
telling  you  all  this.  You  will  know  best.  I  know  I  am 
nothing.  I  ask  nothing.  If  we  love  one  another,  what 
is  there  else  to  say?' 

'Nothing,  nothing  to  say,  except  only  good-bye.  What 
could  you  tell  me  that  I  have  not  told  myself  over 
and  over  again?  Reason's  gone.  Thinking's  gone. 
Now  I  am  only  sure.'  She  smiled  shadowily.  'What 
peace  did  he  find  who  couldn't,  perhaps,  like  you,  face  the 
last  good-bye?' 

They  stood  in  utter  solitude  awhile  in  the  evening 
gloom.  The  air  was  as  still  and  cold  as  some  grey 
unfathomable  untraversed  sea.  Above  them  uncountable 
clouds  drifted  slowly  across  space. 

'Why  do  they  all  keep  whispering  together  ?'  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  with  cowering  face.  'Oh  if  you  knew,  Grisel, 
how  they  have  hemmed  me  in ;  how  they  have  come  press- 
ing in  through  the  narrow  gate  I  left  ajar.  Only  to  mock 
and  mislead.  It's  all  dark  and  unintelligible.' 

He  touched  her  hand,  peering  out  of  the  shadows  that 
seemed  to  him  to  be  gathering  between  their  faces.  He 
drew  her  closer  and  touched  her  lips  with  his  fingers. 
Her  beauty  seemed  to  his  distorted  senses  to  fill  earth  and 
sky.  This,  then,  was  the  presence,  the  grave  and  lovely 
overshadowing  dream  whose  surrender  made  life  a  tor- 
ment, and  death  the  near  fold  of  an  immortal,  starry  veil. 
She  broke  from  him  with  a  faint  cry.  And  he  found 
himself  running  and  running,  just  as  he  had  run  that  other 
night,  with  death  instead  of  life  for  inspiration,  towards 
his  earthly  home. 

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Chapter  Twenty-Two 

HE  was  utterly  wearied,  but  he  walked  on  for  a 
long  while  with  a  dogged  unglancing  pertinacity 
and  'without  looking  behind  him.  Th,en  he 
rested  under  the  dew-sodden  hedgeside  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands.  Once,  indeed,  he  did  turn  and  grind  his 
way  back  with  hard  uplifted  face  for  many  minutes,  but 
at  the  meeting  with  an  old  woman  who  in  the  late  dusk 
passed  him  unheeded  on  the  road,  he  stopped  again,  and 
after  standing  awhile  looking  down  upon  the  dust,  trying 
to  gather  up  the  tangled  threads  of  his  thoughts,  he  once 
more  set  off  homewards. 

It  was  clear,  starry,  and  quite  dark  when  he  reached 
the  house.  The  lamp  at  the  roadside  obscurely  lit  its 
breadth  and  height.  Lamp-light  within,  too,  was  show- 
ing yellow  between  the  Venetian  blinds;  a  cold  gas-jet 
gleamed  out  of  the  basement  window.  He  seemed  bereft 
now  of  all  desire  or  emotion,  simply  the  passive  witness 
of  things  external  in  a  calm  which,  though  he  scarcely 
realised  its  cause,  was  an  exquisite  solace  and  relief.  His 
senses  were  intensely  sharpened  with  sleeplessness. 
The  faintest  sound  belled  clear  and  keen  on  his  ear.  The 
thinnest  beam  of  light  besprinkled  his  eyes  with  curious 
brilliance. 

As  quietly  as  some  nocturnal  creature  he  ascended  the 
steps  to  the  porch,  and  leaning  between  stone  pilaster  and 
wall,  listened  intently  for  any  rumour  of  those  within. 
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The  Return 

He  heard  a  clear,  rather  languid  and  delicate  voice  quietly 
speak  on  until  it  broke  into  a  little  peal  of  laughter,  fol- 
lowed, when  it  fell  silent  by  Sheila's — rapid,  rich,  and 
low.  The  first  speaker  seemed  to  be  standing.  Probably, 
then,  his  evening  visitors  had  only  just  come  in,  or  were 
preparing  to  depart.  He  inserted  his  latchkey  and  gently 
pushed  at  the  cumbersome  door.  It  was  locked  against 
him.  With  not  the  faintest  thought  of  resentment  or 
surprise,  he  turned  back,  stooped  over  the  balustrade  and 
looked  down  into  the  kitchen.  Nothing  there  was  visible 
but  a  narrow  strip  of  the  white  table,  on  which  lay  a  black 
cotton  glove,  and  beyond,  the  glint  of  a  copper  pan. 
What  made  all  these  mute  and  inanimate  things  so  coldly 
hostile? 

An  extreme,  almost  nauseous  distaste  filled  him  at  the 
thought  of  knocking  for  admission,  of  confronting  Ada, 
possibly  even  Sheila,  in  the  cold  echoing  gloom  of  the 
detestable  porch ;  of  meeting  the  first  wild,  almost  metallic, 
flash  of  recognition.  He  swept  softly  down  again,  and 
paused  at  the  open  gate.  Once  before  the  voices  of  the 
night  had  called  him:  they  would  not  summon  him  for 
ever  in  vain.  He  raised  his  eyes  again  towards  the  win- 
dow. Who  were  these  visitors  met  together  to  drum  the 
alien  out  ?  He  narrowed  his  lids  and  smiled  up  at  the  vac- 
uous unfriendly  house.  Then  wheeling,  on  a  sudden 
impulse  he  groped  his  way  down  the  gravel  path  that  led 
into  the  garden.  As  he  had  left  it,  the  long  white  win- 
dow was  ajar. 

With  extreme  caution  he  pushed  it  noiselessly  up,  and 
climbed  in,  and  stood  listening  again  in  the  black  passage 
on  the  other  side.  When  he  had  fully  recovered  his 
breath,  and  the  knocking  of  his  heart  was  stilled,  he  trod 

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The  Return 

on  softly,  till  turning  the  corner  he  came  in  sight  of  the 
kitchen  door.  It  was  now  narrowly  open,  just  enough, 
perhaps,  to  admit  a  cat ;  and  as  he  softly  approached,  look- 
ing steadily  in,  he  could  see  Ada  sitting  at  the  empty  table, 
beneath  the  single  whistling  chandelier,  in  her  black  dress 
and  black  straw  hat.  She  was  reading  apparently ;  but  her 
back  was  turned  to  him  and  he  could  not  distinguish  her 
arm  beyond  the  elbow.  Then  almost  in  an  instant  he  dis- 
covered, as,  drawn  up  and  unstirring  he  gazed  on,  that  she 
was  not  reading,  but  had  covertly  and  instantaneously 
raised  her  eyes  from  the  print  on  the  table  beneath,  and 
was  transfixedly  listening  too.  He  turned  his  eyes  away 
and  waited.  When  again  he  peered  in  she  had  apparently 
bent  once  more  over  her  magazine,  and  he  stole  on. 

One  by  one,  with  a  thin  remote  exultation  in  his  prog- 
ress, he  mounted  the  kitchen  stairs,  and  with  each  deliber- 
ate and  groping  step  the  voices  above  him  became  more 
clearly  audible.  At  last,  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall,  but 
faintly  stirred  by  the  gleam  of  lamplight  from  the  chink 
of  the  dining-room  door,  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the 
drawing-room  door  and  could  hear  with  varying  dis- 
tinctness what  those  friendly  voices  were  so  absorbedly 
discussing.  His  ear  seemed  as  exquisite  as  some  con- 
trivance of  science,  registering  passively  the  least 
sound,  the  faintest  syllable,  and  like  it,  in  no  sense 
meddling  with  the  thought  that  speech  conveyed.  He 
simply  stood  listening,  fixed  and  motionless,  like  some 
uncouth  statue  in  the  leafy  hollow  of  a  garden,  stony, 
unspeculating. 

'Oh,  but  you  either  refuse  to  believe,  Bettie,  or  you 
won't  understand  that  it's  far  worse  than  that.'  Sheila 
seemed  to  be  upbraiding,  or  at  least  reasoning  with,  the 
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The  Return 

last  speaker.  'Ask  Mr  Danton — he  actually  saw  him.' 
'  "Saw  him,"  '  repeated  a  thick,  still  voice.  'He  stood 
there,  in  that  very  doorway,  Mrs  Lovat,  and  positively 
railed  at  me.  He  stood  there  and  streamed  out  all  the 
names  he  could  lay  his  tongue  to.  I  wasn't — unfriendly 
to  the  poor  beggar.  When  Bethany  let  me  into  it  I 
thought  it  was  simply- — I  did  indeed,  Mrs  Law  ford — a 
monstrous  exaggeration.  Flatly,  I  didn't  believe  it;  shall 
I  say  that?  But  when  I  stood  face  to  face  with  him,  I 
could  have  taken  my  oath  that  that  was  no  more  poor  old 
Arthur  Lawford  than — well,  I  won't  repeat  what  partic- 
ular word  occurred  to  me.  But  there,'  the  corpulent  shrug 
was  almost  audible,  'we  all  know  what  old  Bethany  is. 
A  sterling  old  chap,  mind  you,  so  far  as  mere  character  is 
concerned;  the  right  man  in  the  right  place;  but  as 
gullible  and  as  soft-hearted  as  a  torn-tit.  I've  said  all  this 
before,  I  know,  Mrs  Lawford,  and  been  properly  snubbed 
for  my  pains.  But  if  I  had  been  Bethany  I'd  have  sifted 
the  whole  story  at  the  beginning,  the  moment  he  put  his 
foot  into  the  house.  Look  at  that  Tichborne  fellow — went 
for  months  and  months,  just  picking  up  one  day  what  he 
floored  old  Hawkins — wasn't  it? — with  the  next.  But 
of  course,'  he  added  gloomily,  'now  that's  all  too  late. 
He's  wormed  himself  into  a  tolerably  tight  corner.  I'd 
just  like  to  see,  though,  a  British  jury  comparing  this 
claimant  with  his  photograph,  'pon  my  word  I  would. 
Where  would  he  be  then,  do  you  think  ?' 

'But  my  dear  Mr  Danton,'  went  on  the  clear,  languid 
voice  Lawford  had  heard  break  so  light-heartedly  into 
laughter,  'you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  woman  doesn't 
know  her  own  husband  when  she  sees  him — or,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  when  she  doesn't  see  him?  If  Tom  came 

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The  Return 

home  from  a  ramble  as  handsome  as  Apollo  to-morrow,  I'd 
recognise  him  at  the  very  first  blush — literally !  He'd  go 
nuzzling  off  to  get  his  slippers,  or  complain  that  the  lamps 
had  been  smoking,  or  hunt  the  house  down  for  last 
week's  paper.  Oh,  besides,  Tom's  Tom — and  there's  an 
end  of  it.' 

'That's  precisely  what  I  think,  Mrs  Lovat;  one  is 
saturated  with  one's  personality,  as  it  were.' 

'You  see,  that's  just  it!  That's  just  exactly  every 
woman's  husband  all  over ;  he  is  saturated  with  his  person- 
ality. Bravo,  Mr  Craik!' 

'Good  Lord/  said  Danton  softly.     'I  don't  deny  it !' 

'But  that,'  broke  in  Sheila  crisply — 'that's  just  precisely 
what  I  asked  you  all  to  come  in  for.  It's  because  I  know 
now,  apart  altogether  from  the  mere  evidence,  that — that 
he  is  Arthur.  Mind,  I  don't  say  I  ever  really  doubted.  I 
was  only  so  utterly  shocked,  I  suppose.  I  positively  put 
posers  to  him ;  but  his  memory  was  perfect  in  spite  of  the 
shock  which  would  have  killed  a — a  more  sensitive  nature.' 
She  had  risen,  it  seemed,  and  was  moving  with  all  her 
splendid  impressiveness  of  silk  and  presence  across  the 
general  line  of  vision.  But  the  hall  was  dark  and  still; 
her  eyes  were  dimmed  with  light.  Law  ford  could  survey 
her  there  unmoved.  'Are  you  there,  Ada  ?'  she  called  dis- 
creetly. 

'Yes,  ma'am,'  answered  the  faint  voice  from  below. 

'You  have  not  heard  anything- — no  knock?' 

'No,  ma'am,  no  knock.' 

'The  door  is  open  if  you  should  call.' 

'Yes,  ma'am/ 

'The  girl's  scared  out  of  her  wits/  said  Sheila  returning 
to  her  audience.  'I've  told  you  all  that  miserable  Fer- 
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guson  story — a  piece  of  calm,  callous  presence  of  mind  I 
should  never  have  dreamed  my  husband  capable  of.  And 
the  curious  thing  is — at  least,  it  is  no  longer  curious  in  the 
light  of  the  ghastly  facts  I  am  only  waiting  for  Mr  Bethany 
to  tell  you — from  the  very  first  she  instinctively  detested 
the  very  mention  of  his  name.' 

'I  believe,  you  know/  said  Mr  Craik  with  some  decision, 
'that  servants  must  have  the  same  wonderful  instinct  as 
dogs  and  children;  they  are  natural,  intuitive  judges  of 
character.' 

'Yes,'  said  Sheila  gravely,  'and  it's  only  through  that 
that  I  got  to  hear  of  the — the  mysterious  friend  in  the 
little  pony-carriage.  Ada's  magnificently  loyal — I  will 
say  that.' 

'I  don't  want  to  suggest  anything,  Mrs  Lawford,'  be- 
gan Mr  Craik  rather  hurriedly,  'but  wouldn't  it  perhaps 
be  wiser  not  to  wait  for  Mr  Bethany?  It  is  not  at  all 
unusual  for  him  to  be  kept  a  considerable  time  in  the  vestry 
after  service,  and  to-day  is  the  Feast  of  St  Michael's  and 
all  Angels,  you  know.  Mightn't  your  husband  be — er — 
coming  back,  don't  you  think?' 

'Craik's  right,  Mrs  Lawford;  it's  not  a  bit  of  good 
waiting.  Bethany  would  stick  there  till  midnight  if  any 
old  woman's  spiritual  state  could  keep  her  going  so  long. 
Here  we  all  are,  and  at  any  moment  we  may  be  inter- 
rupted. Mind  you,  I  promise  nothing — only  that  there 
shall  be  no  scene.  But  here  I  am,  and  if  he  does  come 
knocking  and  ringing  and  lunging  out  in  the  disgusting 
manner  he — well,  all  I  ask  is  permission  to  speak  for 
you.  'Pon  my  soul,  to  think  what  you  must  have  gone 
through !  It  isn't  the  place  for  ladies  just  now — honestly 
it  ain't.' 

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'Besides,  supposing  the  romantic  lady  of  the  pony-car- 
riage has  friends  ?  Are  you  a  pugilist,  Mr  Craik  ?' 

'I  hope  I  could  give  some  little  account  of  myself,  Mrs 
Lovat ;  but  you  need  have  no  anxiety  about  that.' 

'There,  Mr  Danton.  So  as  there  is  not  the  least  cause 
for  anxiety  even  if  poor  Arthur  should  return  to  his 
earthly  home,  may  we  share  your  dreadful  story  at  once, 
Sheila;  and  then,  perhaps,  hear  Mr  Bethany's  exposition 
of  it  when  he  docs  arrive?  We  are  amply  guarded.' 

'Honestly,  you  know,  you  are  a  bit  of  a  sceptic,  Mrs 
Lovat,'  pleaded  Danton  playfully.  'I've  seen  him/ 

'And  seeing  is  disbelieving,  I  suppose.  Now  then, 
Sheila.' 

'I  don't  think  there's  the  least  chance  of  Arthur  return- 
ing to-night,'  said  Sheila  solemnly.  'I  am  perfectly 
well  aware  it's  best  to  be  as  cheerful  as  one  can — and 
as  resolved;  but  I  think,  Bettie,  when  even  you  know 
the  whole  horrible  secret,  you  won't  think  Mr  Danton 
was — was  horrified  for  nothing.  The  ghastly,  the  awful 
truth  is  that  my  husband — there  is  no  other  word  for  it — 
is — possessed !' 

'  "Possessed,"  Sheila !  What  in  the  name  of  all  the 
creeps  is  that?' 

'Well,  I  dare  say  Mr  Craik  will  explain  it  much  better 
than  I  can.  By  a  devil,  dear.'  The  voice  was  perfectly 
poised  and  restrained,  and  Mr  Craik  did  not  see  fit  for  the 
moment  to  embellish  the  definition. 

Lawford,  with  an  almost  wooden  immobility,  listened 
on. 

'But  the  devil,  or  a  devil?  Isn't  there  a  distinction?' 
inquired  Mrs  Lovat. 

'It's  in  the  Bible,  Bettie,  over  and  over  again.  It  was 
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quite  a  common  thing  in  the  Middle  Ages;  I  think  I'm 
right  in  saying  that,  am  I  not,  Mr  Craik?'  Mr  Craik 
must  have  solemnly  nodded  or  abundantly  looked  his 
unwilling  affirmation.  'And  what  has  been,'  continued 
Sheila  temperately,  'I  suppose  may  be  again.' 

'When  the  fellow  began  raving  at  me  the  other  night/ 
began  Danton  huskily,  as  if  out  of  an  unfathomable  pit 
of  reflection,  'among  other  things  he  said  that  I  haven't 
any  wish  to  remember  was  that  I  was  a  sceptic.  And 
Bethany  said  ditto  to  it.  I  don't  mind  being  called  a 
sceptic :  why,  I  said  myself  Mrs  Lovat  was  a  sceptic  just 
now!  But  when  it  comes  to  "devils,"  Mrs  Lawford- — I 
may  be  convinced  about  the  other,  but  "devils"!  Well, 
I've  been  in  the  City  nearly  twenty-five  years,  and  it's 
my  impression  human  nature  can  raise  all  the  devils  we 
shall  ever  need.  And  another  thing,'  he  added,  as  if  in- 
spired, and  with  an  immensely  intelligent  blink,  'is  it  just 
precisely  that  word  in  the  Revised  Version — eh,  Craik?' 

'I'll  certainly  look  it  up,  Danton.  But  I  take  it  that 
Mrs  Lawford  is  not  so  much  insisting  on  the  word,  as  on 
the — the  manifestation.  And  I'm  bound  to  confess  that 
the  Society  for  Psychical  Research,  which  has  among  its 
members  quite  eminent  and  entirely  trustworthy  men  of 
science — I  am  bound  to  admit  they  have  some  very 
curious  stories  to  tell.  The  old  idea  was,  you  know,  that 
there  are  seventy-two  princely  devils,  and  as  many  as 
seven  million — er — commoners.  It  may  very  well  sound 
quaint  to  our  ears,  Mrs  Lovat;  but  there  it  is.  But 
whether  that  has  any  bearing  on — on  what  you  were 
saying,  Danton,  I  can't  say.  Perhaps  Mrs  Lawford  will 
throw  a  little  more  light  on  the  subject  when  she  tells  us 
on  what  precise  facts  her — her  distressing  theory  is  based.' 

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Lawford  had  soundlessly  stolen  a  pace  or  two  nearer, 
and  by  stooping  forward  a  little  he  could,  each  in  turn, 
scrutinise  the  little  intent  company  sitting  over  his  story 
around  the  lamp  at  the  further  end  of  the  table ;  squatting 
like  little  children  with  their  twigs  and  pins,  fishing  for 
wonders  on  the  brink  of  the  unknown. 

'Yes,'  Mrs  Lovat  was  saying,  'I  quite  agree,  Mr  Craik. 
Seventy-two  princes,  and  no  princesses.  Oh,  these  mas- 
culine prejudices!  But  do  throw  a  little  more  modern 
light  on  the  subject,  Sheila.' 

'I  mean  this,'  said  Sheila  firmly.  'When  I  went  in  for 
the  last  time  to  say  good-bye — and  of  course  it  was  at 
his  own  wish  that  I  did  leave  him;  and  precisely  why 
he  wished  it  is  now  unhappily  only  too  apparent — I  had 
brought  him  some  money  from  the  bank — fifty  pounds, 
I  think;  yes,  fifty  pounds.  And  quite  by  the  merest 
chance  I  glanced  down,  in  passing,  at  a  book  he  had  ap- 
parently been  reading,  a  book  which  he  seemed  very 
anxious  to  conceal  with  his  hand.  Arthur  is  not  a  great 
reader,  though  I  believe  he  studied  a  little  before  we  were 
married,  and — well,  I  detest  anything  like  subterfuge,  and 
I  said  it  out  without  thinking,  "Why,  you're  reading 
French,  Arthur !"  He  turned  deathly  white  but  made  no 
answer.' 

'And  can't  you  even  confide  to  us  the  title,  Sheila?' 
sighed  Mrs  Lovat  reproachfully. 

'Wait  a  minute,'  said  Sheila;  'you  shall  make  as  much 
fun  of  the  thing  as  you  like,  Bettie,  when  I've  finished. 
I  don't  know  why,  but  that  peculiar,  stealthy;  look 
haunted  me.  "Why  French?"  I  kept  asking  myself. 
"Why  French  ?"  Arthur  hasn't  opened  a  French  book  for 
years.  He  doesn't  even  approve  of  the  entente.  His  ar- 
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gument  was  that  we  ought  to  be  friends  with  the  Ger- 
mans because  they  are  more  hostile.  Never  mind.  When 
Ada  came  back  the  next  evening  and  said  he  was  out, 
I  came  the  following  morning — by  myself — and  knocked. 
No  one  answered,  and  I  let  myself  in.  His  bed  had  not 
been  slept  in.  There  were  candles  and  matches  all  over 
the  house — one  even  burnt  nearly  to  the  stick  on  the 
floor  in  the  corner  of  the  drawing-room.  I  suppose  it 
was  foolish,  but  I  was  alone,  and  just  that,  somehow, 
horrified  me.  It  seemed  to  point  to  such  a  peculiar 
state  of  mind.  I  hesitated;  what  was  the  use  of  looking 
further  ?  Yet  something  seemed  to  say  to  me — and  it  was 
surely  providential — "Go  downstairs!"  And  there  in 
the  breakfast-room  the  first  thing  I  saw  on  the  table 
was  this  book — a  dingy,  ragged,  bleared,  patched-up,  oh, 
a  horrible,  a  loathsome  little  book  (and  I  have  read 
bits  too  here  and  there) ;  and  beside  it  was  my  own  little 

school  dictionary,  my  own  child's '  She  looked  up 

sharply.  'What  was  that?  Did  anybody  call?' 

'Nobody  7  heard,'  said  Danton,  staring  stonily  round. 

'It  may  have  been  the  passing  of  the  wind/  suggested 
Mr  Craik,  after  a  pause. 

'Peep  between  the  blinds,  Mr  Craik;  it  may  be  poor 
Mr  Bethany  confronting  Pneumonia  in  the  porch.' 

'There's  no  one  there,  Mrs  Lovat,'  said  the  curate, 
returning  softly  from  his  errand.  'Please  continue  your 
— your  narrative,  Mrs  Law  ford.' 

'We  are  panting  for  the  "devil,"  my  dear.' 

'Well,  I  sat  down  and,  very  much  against  my  inclination, 
turned  over  the  pages.  It  was  full  of  the  most  revolting 
confessions  and  trials,  so  far  as  I  could  see.  In  fact,  I 
think  the  book  was  merely  an  amateur  collection  of— of 

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horrors.  And  the  faces,  the  portraits !  Well,  then,  can 
you  imagine  my  feelings  when  towards  the  end  of  the 
book,  about  thirty  pages  from  the  end,  I  came  upon  this 
— gloating  up  at  me  from  the  table  in  my  house  be- 
fore my  very  eyes?' 

She  cast  a  rapid  glance  over  her  shoulder,  and  gather- 
ing up  her  silk  skirt,  drew  out,  from  the  pocket  beneath, 
the  few  crumpled  pages,  and  passed  them  without  a 
word  to  Danton.  Law  ford  kept  him  plainly  in  view,  as, 
lowering  his  great  face,  he  slowly  stooped,  and  holding  the 
loose  leaves  with  both  fat  hands  between  his  knees, 
stared  into  the  portrait.  Then  he  truculently  lifted  his 
cropped  head. 

'What  did  I  say?'  he  said.  'What  did  I  say?  What 
did  I  tell  old  Bethany  in  this  very  room?  What  d'ye 
think  of  that,  Mrs  Lovat,  for  a  portrait  of  Arthur  Law- 
ford  ?  What  d'ye  make  of  that,  Craik — eh  ?  Devil— eh  ?' 

Mrs  Lovat  glanced  with  arched  eyebrows,  and  with  her 
finger-tips  handed  the  sheets  on  to  her  neighbour,  who 
gazed  with  a  settled  and  mournful  frown  and  returned 
them  to  Sheila. 

She  took  the  pages,  folded  them  and  replaced  them 
carefully  in  her  pocket.  She  swept  her  hands  over  her 
skirts,  and  turned  to  Danton. 

'You  agree,'  she  inquired  softly,  'it's  like?' 

'Like !  It's  the  livin'  livid  image.  The  livin'  image,'  he 
repeated,  stretching  out  his  arm,  'as  he  stood  there  that 
very  night.' 

'What  will  you  say,  then,'  said  Sheila,  quietly,  'What 
will  you  say  if  I  tell  you  that  that  man,  Nicholas  de 
Sabathier,  has  been  in  his  grave  for  over  a  hundred 
years  ?' 
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Danton's  little  eyes  seemed,  if  anything,  to  draw  back 
even  further  into  his  head.  'I'd  say,  Mrs  Lawford,  if 
you'll  excuse  the  word,  that  it  might  be  a  damn  horrible 
coincidence — I'd  go  farther,  an  almost  incredible  coinci- 
dence. But  if  you  want  the  sober  truth,  I'd  say  it  was 
nothing  more  than  a  crafty,  clever,  abominable  piece  of 
trickery.  That's  what  I'd  say.  Oh,  you  don't  know, 
Mrs  Lovat.  When  a  scamp's  a  scamp,  he'll  stop  at 
nothing.  /  could  tell  you  some  tales.' 

'Ah,  but  that's  not  all,'  said  Sheila,  eyeing  them  stead- 
fastly one  by  one.  'We  all  of  us  know  that  my  husband's 
story  was  that  he  had  gone  down  to  Widderstone — into 
the  churchyard,  for  his  convalescent  ramble ;  that  story's 
true.  We  all  know  that  he  said  he  had  had  a  fit,  a  heart 
attack,  and  that  a  kind  of — of  stupor  had  come  over  him. 
I  believe  on  my  honour  that's  true  too.  But  no  one  knows 
but  he  himself  and  Mr  Bethany  and  I,  that  it  was  a 
wretched  broken  grave,  quite  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
that  he  chose  for  his  resting  place,  nor — and  I  can't  get 
the  scene  out  of  my  head — nor  that  the  name  on  that 
one  solitary  tombstone  down  there  was — was  .  .  .  this!' 

Danton  rolled  his  eyes.  'I  don't  begin  to  follow,'  he 
said  stubbornly. 

'You  don't  mean,'  said  Mr  Craik,  who  had  not  removed 
his  gaze  from  Sheila's  face,  'I  am  not  to  take  it  that  you 
mean,  Mrs  Lawford,  the — the  other?' 

'Yes,'  said  Sheila,  'his' — she  patted  her  skirts — 'Saba- 
thier's.' 

'You  mean,'  said  Mrs  Lovat  crisply,  'that  the  man  in 
the  grave  is  the  man  in  the  book,  and  that  the  man  in 
the  book  is — is  poor  Arthur's  changed  face?' 

Sheila  nodded. 

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Danton  rose  cumbrously  from  his  chair,  looking  beadily 
down  on  his  three  friends. 

'Oh,  but  you  know,  it  isn't — it  isn't  right/  he  began. 
'Lord !  I  can  see  him  now.  Glassy — yes,  that's  the  very 
word  I  said — glassy.  It  won't  do,  Mrs  Law  ford ;  on  my 
solemn  honour,  it  won't  do.  I  don't  deny  it,  call  it  what 
you  like;  yes,  devils,  if  you  like.  But  what  I  say  as  a 
practical  man  is  that  it's  just  rank — that's  what  it  is! 
Bethany's  had  too  much  rope.  The  time's  gone  by  for 
sentiment  and  all  that  foolery.  Mercy's  all  very  well, 
but  after  all  it's  justice  that  clinches  the  bargain.  There's 
only  one  way :  we  must  catch  him ;  we  must  lay  the  poor 
wretch  by  the  heels  before  it's  too  late.  No  publicity, 
God  bless  me,  no.  We'd  have  all  the  rags  in  London  on 
us.  They'd  pillory  us  nine  days  on  end.  We'd  never 
live  it  down.  No,  we  must  just  hush  it  up — a  home  or 
something;  an  asylum.  For  my  part,'  he  turned  like  a 
huge  toad,  his  chin  low  in  his  collar — 'and  I'd  say  the 
same  if  it  was  my  own  brother,  and,  after  all,  he  is  your 
husband,  Mrs  Lawford — I'd  sooner  he  was  in  his  grave. 
It  takes  two  to  play  at  that  game,  that's  what  I  say. 
To  lay  himself  open!  I  can't  stand  it — honestly,  I  can't 
stand  it.  And  yet,'  he  jerked  his  chin  over  the  peak  of 
his  collar  towards  the  ladies,  'and  yet  you  say  he's  being 
fetched;  comes  creeping  home,  and  is  fetched  at  dark 
by  a — a  lady  in  a  pony-carriage.  God  bless  me!  It's 
rank.  What,'  he  broke  out  violently  again,  'what  was  he 
doing  there  in  a  cemetery  after  dark  ?  Do  you  think  that 
beastly  Frenchman  would  have  played  such  a  trick  on 
Craik  here?  Would  he  have  tried  his  little  game  on  me? 
Deviltry  be  it,  if  you  prefer  the  word,  and  all  deference 
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to  you,  Mrs  Lawford.  But  I  know  this- — a  couple  of 
hundred  years  ago  they  would  have  burnt  a  man  at  the 
stake  for  less  than  a  tenth  of  this.  Ask  Craik  here.  I 
don't  know  how,  and  I  don't  know  when:  his  mother. 
I've  always  heard  say,  was  a  little  eccentric ;  but  the  truth 
is  he's  managed  by  some  unholy  legerdemain  to  get  the 
thing  at  his  finger's  ends ;  that's  what  it  is.  Think  of  that 
unspeakable  book.  Left  open  on  the  table!  Look  at 
his  Ferguson  game.  It's  our  solemn  duty  to  keep  him 
for  good  and  all  out  of  mischief.  It  reflects  all  round. 
There's  no  getting  out  of  it;  we're  all  in  it.  And  tar 
sticks.  And  then  there's  poor  little  Alice  to  consider, 
and — and  you  yourself,  Mrs.  Lawford :  I  wouldn't  give 
the  fellow — friend  though  he  was,  in  a  way — it  isn't  safe 
to  give  him  five  minutes'  freedom.  We've  simply  got  to 
save  you  from  yourself,  Mrs  Lawford;  that's  what  it  is 
' — and  from  old-fashioned  sentiment.  And  I  only  wish 
Bethany  was  here  now  to  dispute  it!' 

He  stirred  himself  down,  as  it  were,  into  his  clothes,  and 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  hearthrug,  gently  oscillating, 
with  his  hands  behind  his  back.  But  at  some  faint 
rumour  out  of  the  silent  house  his  posture  suddenly 
stiffened,  and  he  lifted  a  little,  with  heavy,  steady  lids, 
his  head. 

'What  is  the  matter,  Danton  ?'  said  Mr  Craik  in  a  small 
voice;  'why  are  you  listening?' 

'I  wasn't  listening,'  said  Danton  stoutly,  '1  was  thinking.' 

At  the  same  moment,  at  the  creak  of  a  footstep  on  the 
kitchen  stairs,  Lawford  also  had  drawn  soundlessly  back 
into  the  darkness  of  the  empty  drawing-room. 

'While  Mr  Danton  is  "thinking,"  Sheila.'  Mrs  Lovat 

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was  softly  interposing,  'do  please  listen  a  moment  to  me. 
Do  you  mean  really  that  that  Frenchman — the  one  you've 
pocketed — is  the  poor  creature  in  the  grave?' 

'Yes,  Mrs  Lawford,'  said  Mr  Craik,  putting  out  his  face 
a  little,  'are  we  to  take  it  that  you  mean  that  ?' 

'It's  the  same  date,  dear,  the  same  name  even  to  the 
, spelling;  what  possibly  else  can  I  think?' 

'And  that  the  poor  creature  in  the  grave  actually  climbed 
up  out  of  the  darkness  and — well,  what?' 

'I  know  no  more  than  you  do  now,  Bettie.  But  the 
two  faces' — you  must  remember  you  haven't  seen  my  hus- 
band since'  You  must  remember  you  haven't  heard  the 
peculiar — the  most  peculiar  things  he — Arthur  himself — 
has  said  to  me.  Things  such  as  a  wife  ...  And  not  in 
jest,  Bettie;  I  assure  you.  .  .  .' 

'And  Mr  Bethany?'  interpolated  Mr  Craik  modestly, 
feeling  his  way. 

Tah,  Bethany,  Craik!  He'd  back  Old  Nick  himself 
if  he  came  with  a  good  tale.  We've  got  to  act;  we've 
got  to  settle  his  hash  before  he  does  any  mischief.' 

'Well,'  began  Mrs  Lovat,  smiling  a  little  remorsefully 
beneath  the  arch  of  her  raised  eyebrows,  'I  sincerely 
hope  you'll  all  forgive  me;  but  I  really  am,  heart  and 
soul,  with  Old  Nick,  as  Mr  Danton  seems  on  intimate 
terms  enough  to  call  him.  Dead,  he  is  really  immensely 
alluring;  and  alive,  I  think,  awfully — just  awfully  pitiful 
and — and  pathetic.  But  if  I  know  anything  of  Arthur  he 
won't  be  beaten  by  a  Frenchman.  As  for  just  the 
portrait,  I  think,  do  you  know,  I  almost  prefer  dark  men' 
— she  glanced  up  at  the  face  immediately  in  front  of  the 
clock — 'at  least,'  she  added  softly,  'when  they  are  not 
looking  very  vindictive.  I  suppose  people  are  fairly 


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often  possessed,  Mr  Craik?  How  many  "deadly  sins" 
are  there?' 

'As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs  Lovat,  there  are  seven.  But 
I  think  in  this  case  Mrs  Law  ford  intends  to  suggest  not 
so  much  that — that  her  husband  is  in  that  condition; 
habitual  sin,  you  know — grave  enough,  of  course,  I  own 
— but  that  he  is  actually  being  compelled,  even  to  the  ex- 
tent of  a  more  or  less  complete  change  of  physiognomy, 
to  follow  the  biddings  of  some  atrocious  spiritual  influ- 
ence. It  is  no  breach  of  confidence  to  say  that  I  have 
myself  been  present  at  a  death-bed  where  the  struggle 
against  what  I  may  call  the  end  was  perfectly  awful  to 
witness.  I  don't  profess  to  follow  all  the  ramifications 
of  the  affair,  but  though  possibly  Mr  Danton  may  seem  a 
little  harsh,  such  harshness,  if  I  may  venture  to  intercede, 
is  not  necessarily  "vindictive."  And — and  personal  se- 
curity is  a  consideration.' 

'If  you  only  knew  the  awful  fear,  the  awful  uncer- 
tainty I  have  been  in,  Bettie!  Oh,  it  is  worse,  infinitely 
worse,  than  you  can  possibly  imagine.  I  have  myself 
heard  the  Voice  speak  out  of  him — a  high,  hard,  nasal 
voice.  I've  seen  what  Mr  Danton  calls  the  "glassiness" 
come  into  his  face,  and  an  expression  so  wild  and  so  ap- 
pallingly depraved,  as  it  were,  that  I  have  had  to  hurry 
downstairs  to  hide  myself  from  the  thought.  I'm  willing 
to  sacrifice  everything  for  my  own  husband  and  for 
Alice ;  but  can  it  be  expected  of  me  to  go  on  harbouring. 
.  .  .  '  Law  ford  listened  on  in  vain  for  a  moment;  poor 
Sheila,  it  seemed,  had  all  but  broken  down. 

'Look  here,  Mrs  Lawford,'  began  Danton  huskily,  'you 
really  mustn't  give  .way;  you  really  mustn't.  It's  awful, 
unspeakably  awful,  I  admit.  But  here  we  are ;  friends,  in 

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the  midst  of  friends.  And  there's  absolutely  nothing 

What's  that?  Eh?  Who  is  it?  ...  Oh,  the  maid!' 

Ada  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  in.  'All  I've  come  to 
ask,  ma'am,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  'is,  am  I  to  stay  down- 
stairs any  longer?  And  are  you  aware  there's  some- 
body in  the  house?' 

'What's  that?  What's  that  you're  saying?'  broke  out 
the  husky  voice  again.  'Control  yourself !  Speak  gently ! 
What's  that?' 

'Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  I'm  perfectly  under  control. 
And  all  I  say  is  that  I  can't  stay  any  longer  alone  down- 
stairs there.  There's  somebody  in  the  house.' 

A  concentrated  hush  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  the 
little  assembly. 

'  "Somebody" — but  who?'  said  Sheila  out  of  the  silence. 
'You  come  up  here,  Ada,  with  these  idle  fancies.  Who's 
in  the  house?  There  has  been  no  knock — no  footstep.' 

'No  knock,  no  footstep,  ma'am,  that  I've  heard.  It's 
Dr  Ferguson,  ma'am.  He  was  here  that  first  night;  and 
he's  been  here  ever  since.  «He  was  here  when  I  came 
on  Tuesday;  and  he  was  here  last  night.  And  he's  here 
now.  I  can't  be  deceived  by  my  own  feelings.  It's  not 
right,  it's  not  out-spoken  <to  keep  me  in  the  dark  like  this. 
And  if  you  have  no  objection,  I  would  like  to  go  home.* 

Lawford  in  his  utter  weariness  had  nearly  closed  the 
door  and  now  sat  bent  up  on  a  chair,  wondering  vaguely 
when  this  poor  play  was  coming  to  an  end,  longing  with 
an  intensity  almost  beyond  endurance  for  the  keen  night 
air,  the  open  sky.  But  still  his  ears  drank  in  every  tiniest 
sound  or  stir.  He  heard  Danton's  lowered  voice  mutter- 
ing his  arguments.  He  heard  Ada  quietly  sniffing  in  the 
darkness  of  the  hall.  And  this  was  his  world !  This  was 
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his  life's  panorama,  creaking  on  at  every  jolt.  This  was 
the  'must'  Grisel  had  sent  him  back  to — these  poor  fools 
packed  together  in  a  panic  at  an  old  stale  tale !  Well,  they 
would  all  come  out  presently,  and  cluster ;  and  the  crested, 
cackling  fellow  would  lead  them  safely  away  out  of  the 
haunted  farmyard. 

He  started  out  of  his  reverie  at  Danton's  voice  close  at 
hand. 

'Look  here,  my  good  girl,  we  haven't  the  least  intention 
of  keeping  you  in  the  dark.  If  you  want  to  leave  your 
mistress  like  this  in  the  midst  of  her  anxieties  she  says 
you  can  go  and  welcome.  But  it's  not  a  bit  of  good  in 
the  world  coming  up  with  these  cock-and-bull  stories. 
The  truth  is  your  master's  mad,  that's  the  sober  truth  of  it 
— hopelessly  insane,  you  understand ;  and  we've  got  to  find 
him.  But  nothing's  to  be  said,  d'ye  see?  It's  got  to  be 
done  without  fuss  or  scandal.  But  if  there's  any  witness 
wanted,  or  anything  of  that  kind,  why,  here  you  are; 
and,'  he  dropped  his  voice  to  an  almost  inaudible  hoot, 
'and  well  worth  your  while !  You  did  see  him,  eh  ?  Step 
into  the  trap,  and  all  that?' 

Ada  stood  silent  a  moment.  'I  don't  know,  sir,'  she 
began  quietly,  'by  what  right  you  speak  to  me  about  what 
you  call  my  cock-and-bull  stories.  If  the  master  is 
mad,  all  I  can  say  to  anybody  is  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear 
it.  I  came  to  my  mistress,  sir,  if  you  please;  and  I  prefer 
to  take  my  orders  from  one  who  has  a  right  to  give  them. 
Did  I  understand  you  to  say,  ma'am,  that  you  wouldn't 
want  me  any  more  this  evening?' 

Sheila  had  swept  solemnly  to  the  door.  'Mr  Danton 
meant  all  that  he  said  quite  kindly,  Ada.  I  can  perfectly 
understand  your  feelings — perfectly.  And  I'm  very  much 

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obliged  to  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me  in  very  trying 
circumstances.  We  are  all  agreed — we  are  forced  to  the 
terrible  conclusion  which — which  Mr  Danton  has  just 
— expressed.  And  I  know  I  can  rely  on  your  discretion. 
Don't  stay  on  a  moment  if  you  really  are  afraid.  But 
when  you  say  "some  one"  Ada,  do  you  mean — some  one 
like  you  or  me;  or  do  you  mean — the  other?' 

'I've  been  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  ma'am,  unable  to  move. 
I'm  watched  everywhere.  The  other  evening  I  went  into 
the  drawing-room- — I  was  alone  in  the  house — and  .  .  . 
I  can't  describe  it.  It  wasn't  dark;  and  yet  it  was  all 
still  and  black,  like  the  ruins  after  a  fire.  I  don't  mean 
I  saw  it,  only  that  it  was  like  a  scene.  And  then  the 
watching — I  am  quite  aware  to  some  it  may  sound  all 
fancy.  But  I'm  not  superstitious,  never  was.  I  only 
mean — that  I  can't  sit  alone  here.  I  daren't.  Else,  I'm 
quite  myself.  So  if  so  be  you  don't  want  me  any  more; 
if  I  can't  be  of  any  further  use  to  you  or  to — to  Mr.  Law- 
ford,  I'd  prefer  to  go  home.' 

'Very  well,  Ada;  thank  you.     You  can  go  out  this  way.' 

The  door  was  unchained  and  unbolted,  and  'Good-night' 
said.  And  Sheila  swept  back  in  sombre  pomp  to  her 
absorbed  friends. 

'She's  quite  a  good  creature  at  heart,'  she  explained 
frankly,  as  if  to  disclaim  any  finesse,  'and  almost  quixot- 
ically loyal.  But  what  really  did  she  mean,  do  you  think  ? 
She  is  so  obstinate.  That  maddening  "some  one" !  How 
they  do  repeat  themselves.  It  can't  be  my  husband;  not 
Dr  Ferguson,  I  mean.  You  don't  suppose — oh  surely, 
not  "some  one"  else!'  Again  the  dark  silence  of  the 
house  seemed  to  drift  in  on  the  little  company. 

Mr  Craik  cleared  his  throat,  'I  failed  to  catch  quite  all 
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that  the  maid  said,'  he  murmured  apologetically;  'but  I 
certainly  did  gather  it  was  to  some  kind  of — of  emanation 
she  was  referring.  And  the  "ruin,"  you  know.  I'm  not  a 
mystic ;  and  yet  do  you  know,  that  somehow  seemed  to  me 
almost  offensively  suggestive  of — of  daemonic  influence. 
You  don't  suppose,  Mrs  Lawford1 — and  of  course  I 
wouldn't  for  a  moment  venture  on  such  a  conjecture  un- 
supported— but  even  if  this  restless  spirit  (let  us  call  it) 
did  succeed  in  making  a  footing,  it  might  possibly  be 
rather  in  the  nature  of  a  lodging  than  a  permanent  resi- 
dence. Moreover  we  are,  I  think,  bound  to  remember 
that  probably  in  all  spheres  of  existence  like  attracts  like; 
even  the  Gadarene  episode  seems  to  suggest  a  possible 
multiplication!'  he  peered  largely.  'You  don't  suppose, 
Mrs  Lawford  .  .  .  ?' 

'I  think  Mr  Craik  doesn't  quite  relish  having  to  break 
the  news,  Sheila  dear,'  explained  Mrs  Lovat  soothingly, 
'that  perhaps  Sabathier's  out.  Which  really  is  quite  a 
heavenly  suggestion,  for  in  that  case  your  husband  would 
be  in,  wouldn't  he  ?  Just  our  old  stolid  Arthur  again,  you 
know.  And  next  Mr  Craik  is  suggesting,  and  it  certainly 
does  seem  rather  fascinating,  that  poor  Ada's  got  mixed 
up  with  the  Frenchman's  friends,  or  perhaps,  even, 
with  one  of  the  seventy-two  Princes  Royal.  I  know 
women  can't,  or  mustn't  reason,  Mr  Danton,  but  you  do, 
I  hope,  just  catch  the  drift?' 

Danton  started.  'I  wasn't  really  listening  to  the  girl,' 
he  explained  nonchalantly,  shrugging  his  black  shoulders 
and  pursing  up  his  eyes.  'Personally,  Mrs  Lovat,  I'd 
pack  the  baggage  off  to-night,  box  and  all.  But  it's  not  my 
business.' 

'You  mustn't  be  depressed — must  he,  Mr  Craik?  After 

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all,  my  dear  man,  the  business,  as  you  call  it,  is  not  ex- 
actly entailed.  But  really,  Sheila,  I  think  it  must  be 
getting  very  late.  Mr  Bethany  won't  come  now.  And 
the  dear  old  thing  ought  certainly  to  have  his  say  before 
we  go  any  further ;  oughtn't  he,  Mr  Danton  ?  So  what's 
the  use  of  worriting  poor  Ada's  ghost  any  longer.  And 
as  for  poor  Arthur — I  haven't  the  faintest  desire  in  the 
world  to  hear  the  little  cart  drive  up,  simply  in  case  it 
should  be  to  leave  your  unfortunate  husband  behind  it, 
Sheila.  What  it  must  be  to  be  alone  all  night  in  this  house 
with  a  dead  and  buried  Frenchman's  face — well,  I  shudder, 
dear!' 

'And  yet,  Mrs  Lovat,'  said  Mr  Craik,  with  some  little 
show  of  returning  bravado,  'as  we  make  our  bed,  you 
know.' 

'But  in  this  case,  you  see,'  she  replied  reflectively,  'if 
all  accounts  are  true,  Mr  Craik,  it's  manifestly  the  wicked 
Frenchman  who  has  made  the  bed,  and  Sheila  who  re- 
fu But  look;  Mr  Danton  is  fretting  to  get  home.' 

'If  you'll  all  go  to  the  door,'  said  Danton,  seizing  a 
fleeting  opportunity  to  raise  his  eyebrows  more  expres- 
sively even  than  if  he  had  again  shrugged  his  shoulders 
at  Sheila,  'I'll  put  out  the  light.' 

The  night  air  flowed  into  the  dark  house  as  Danton 
hastily  groped  his  way  out  of  the  dining-room. 

'There's  only  one  thing,'  said  Sheila  slowly.  'When  I 
last  saw  my  husband,  you  know,  he  was,  I  think,  the 
least  bit  better.  He  was  always  stubbornly  convinced 
it  would  all  come  right  in  time.  That's  why,  I  think, 
he's  been  spending  his — his  evenings  away  from  home. 
But  supposing  it  did?' 

'For  my  part,'  said  Mrs  Lovat,  breathing  the  faint 
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wind  that  was  rising  out  of  the  west,  'I'd  sigh;  I'd  rub 
my  eyes ;  I'd  thank  God  for  such  an  exciting  dream ;  and 
I'd  turn  comfortably  over  and  go  to  sleep  again.  I'm 
all  for  Arthur — absolutely — back  against  the  wall.' 

'For  my  part,'  said  Danton,  looming  in  the  dusk,  'friend 
or  no  friend,  I'd  cut  the — I'd  cut  him  dead.  But  don't 
fret,  Mrs  Lawford,  devil  or  no  devil,  he's  gone  for  good.' 

'And  for  my  part '  began  Mr  Craik;  but  the  door 

at  that  moment  slammed. 

Voices,  however,  broke  out  almost  immediately  in  the 
porch.  And  after  a  hurried  consultation,  Lawford  in 
his  stagnant  retreat  heard  the  door  softly  reopen,  and 
the  striking  of  a  match.  And  Mr  Craik,  followed  closely 
by  Danton's  great  body,  stole  circumspectly  across  his 
dim  chink,  and  the  first  adventurer  went  stumbling  down 
the  kitchen  staircase. 

'I  suppose,'  muttered  Lawford,  turning  his  head  in  the 
darkness,  'they  have  come  back  to  put  out  the  kitchen  gas.' 

Danton  began  a  busy  tuneless  whistle  between  his 
teeth. 

'Coming,  Craik?'  he  called  thickly,  after  a  long  pause. 

Apparently  no  answer  had  been  returned  to  his  inquiry : 
he  waited  a  little  longer,  with  legs  apart,  and  eyeballs  en- 
veloped in  brooding  darkness.  Til  just  go  and  tell  the 
ladies  you're  coming,'  he  suddenly  bawled  down  the  hol- 
low. 'Do  you  hear,  Craik?  They're  alone,  you  know.' 
And  with  that  he  resolutely  wheeled  and  rapidly  made  his 
way  down  the  steps  into  the  garden.  Some  few  mo- 
ments afterwards  Mr  Craik  shook  himself  free  of  the 
basement,  hastened  at  a  spirited  trot  to  rejoin  his  com- 
panions, and  in  his  absence  of  mind  omitted  to  shut  the 
front  door. 

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Chapter  Twenty-Three 

LAWFORD  sat  on  in  the  darkness,  and  now  one 
sentence  and  now  another  of  their  talk  would 
repeat  itself  in  his  memory,  in  much  the  same  way 
as  one  listlessly  turns  over  an  antiquated  diary,  to  read 
here  and  there  a  flattened  and  almost  meaningless  senti- 
ment. Sometimes  a  footstep  passed  echoing  along  the 
path  under  the  trees,  then  his  thoughts  would  leave  him, 
and  he  would  listen  and  listen  till  it  had  died  quite  out. 
It  was  all  so  very  far  away.  And  they  too — these 
talkers- — so  very  far  away ;  as  remote  and  yet  as  clear  as 
the  characters  in  a  play  when  they  have  made  their  final 
•bow,  and  have  left  the  curtained  stage,  and  one  is  stand- 
ing uncompanioned  and  nearly  the  last  of  the  spectators, 
and  the  lights  that  have  summoned  back  reality  again  are 
being  extinguished.  It  was  only  by  painful  effort  of 
mind  that  he  kept  recalling  himself  to  himself — why  he 
was  here;  what  it  all  meant;  that  this  was  indeed  ac- 
tuality. 

Yet,  after  all,  this  by  now  was  his  customary  loneli- 
ness :  there  was  little  else  he  desired  for  the  present  than 
the  hospitality  of  the  dark.  He  glanced  around  him  in 
the  clear,  black,  stirless  air.  Here  and  there,  it  seemed, 
a  humped  or  spindled  form  held  against  all  comers  its 
passive  place.  Here  and  there  a  tiny  faintness  of  light 
played.  Night  after  night  these  chairs  and  tables  kept 
their  blank  vigil.  Why,  he  thought,  pleased  as  an  over- 
276 


tired  child  with  the  fancy,  in  a  sense  they  were  always 
alone,  shut  up  in  a  kind  of  senselessness — just  like  us 
all.  But  what — what,  he  had  suddenly  risen  from  his 
chair  to  ask  himself — what  on  earth  are  they  alone  with? 
No  precise  answer  had  been  forthcoming  to  that  question. 
But  as  in  turning  in  the  doorway,  he  looked  out  into  the 
night,  flashing  here  and  there  in  dark  spaces  of  the  sky 
above  the  withering  apple  leaves — the  long  dark  wall 
and  quiet  untrodden  road — with  the  tumultuous  beating  of 
the  stars — one  thing  at  least  he  was  conscious  of  having 
learned  in  these  last  few  days :  he  knew  what  kind  of  a 
place  he  was  alone  in. 

It  seemed  to  weave  a  spell  over  him,  to  call  up  a  nos- 
talgia he  had  lost  all  remembrance  of  since  childhood. 
And  that  queer  homesickness,  at  any  rate,  was  all  Saba- 
thier's  doing,  he  thought,  smiling  in  his  rather  careworn 
fashion.  Sabathier !  It  was  this  mystery,  bereft  now  of 
all  fear,  and  this  beauty  together,  that  made  life  the  end- 
less, changing  and  yet  changeless,  thing  it  was.  And 
yet  mystery  and  loveliness  alike  were  only  really  appreci- 
able with  one's  legs,  as  it  were,  dangling  down  over  into 
the  grave. 

Just  with  one's  lantern  lit,  on  the  edge  of  the  whisper- 
ing unknown,  and  a  reiterated  going  back  out  of  the 
solitude  into  the  light  and  warmth,  to  the  voices  and 
glancing  of  eyes,  to  say  good-bye: — that  after  all  was 
this  life  on  earth  for  those  who  watched  as  well  as  acted. 
What  if  one's  earthly  home  were  empty? — still  the  rest- 
less fretted  traveller  must  tarry;  'for  the  horrible  worst 
of  it  is,  my  friend,'  he  said,  as  if  to  some  silent  com- 
panion listening  behind  him,  'the  worst  of  it  is,  your 
way  was  just  simply,  solely  suicide.'  What  was  it  Herbert 

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The  Return 

had  called  it?  Yes,  a  cul-de-sac — black,  lofty,  immensely 
still  and  old  and  picturesque,  but  none  the  less  merely  a 
contemptible  cul-de-sac;  no  abiding  place,  scarcely  even 
sufficing  with  its  flagstones  for  a  groan  from  the  fugitive 
and  deluded  refugee.  There  was  no  peace  for  the  wicked. 
The  question  of  course  then  came  in — Was  there  any 
peace  anywhere,  for  anybody? 

He  smiled  at  a  sudden  odd  remembrance  of  a  quiet, 
sardonic  old  aunt  whom  he  used  to  stay  with  as  a  child. 
'Children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard,'  she  would  say, 
peering  at  him  over  his  favourite  pudding. 

His  eyes  rested  vacantly  on  the  darkling  street.  He 
fell  again  into  reverie,  gigantically  brooded  over  by  shapes 
only  imagination  dimly  conceived  of:  the  remote  alleys 
of  his  mind  astir  with  a  shadowy  and  ceaseless  traffic 
which  it  wasn't  at  least  this  life's  business  to  hearken 
after,  or  regard.  And  as  he  stood  there  in  a  mysteriously 
thronging  peaceful  solitude  such  as  he  had  never  known 
before,  faintly  out  of  the  silence  broke  the  sound 
of  approaching  hoofs.  His  heart  seemed  to  gather  it- 
self close;  a  momentary  blindness  veiled  his  eyes,  so 
wildly  had  his  blood  surged  up  into  cheek  and  brain. 
He  remained,  caught  up,  with  head  slightly  inclined, 
listening,  as,  with  an  interminable  tardiness,  measure- 
less anguished  hope  died  down  into  nothing  in  his  mind. 

Cold  and  heavy,  his  heart  began  to  beat  again,  as  if 
to  catch  up  those  laggard  moments.  He  turned  with  an 
infinite  revulsion  of  feeling  to  look  out  on  the  lamps  of 
the  old  fly  that  had  drawn  up  at  his  gate. 

He  watched  incuriously  a  little  old  lady  rather  ardu- 
ously alight,  pause,  and  look  up  at  his  darkened  windows, 
and  after  a  momentary  hesitation,  and  a  word  over  her 
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The  Return 

shoulder  to  the  cabman,  stoop  and  fumble  at  the  iron 
latch.  He  watched  her  with  a  kind  of  wondering  aversion, 
still  scarcely  tinged  with  curiosity.  She  had  succeeded  in 
lifting  the  latch  and  in  pushing  her  way  through,  and 
was  even  now  steadily  advancing  towards  him  along  the 
tiled  path.  And  a  minute  after  he  recognised  with  the 
strangest  reactions  the  quiet  old  figure  that  had  shared 
a  sunset  with  him  ages  and  ages  ago — his  mother's  old 
schoolfellow,  Miss  Sinnet. 

He  was  already  ransacking  the  still  faintly-perfumed 
dining-room  for  matches,  and  had  just  succeeded  in  re- 
lighting the  still-warm  lamp,  when  he  heard  her  quiet  step 
in  the  porch,  even  felt  her  peering  in,  in  the  gloom,  with 
all  her  years'  trickling  customariness  behind  her,  a  little 
dubious  of  knocking  on  a  wide-open  door. 

But  the  lamp  lit  Lawford  went  out  again  and  welcomed 
his  visitor.  'I  am  alone,'  he  was  explaining  gravely,  'my 
wife's  away  and  the  whole  house  topsy-turvy.  How 
very,  very  kind  of  you!' 

The  old  lady  was  breathing  a  little  heavily  after  her 
ascent  of  the  steep  steps,  and  seemed  not  to  have  noticed 
his  outstretched  hand.  None  the  less  she  followed  him  in, 
and  when  she  was  well  advanced  into  the  lighted  room, 
she  sighed  deeply,  raised  her  veil  over  the  front  of  her 
bonnet,  and  leisurely  took  out  her  spectacles. 

'I  suppose/  she  was  explaining  in  a  little  quiet  voice, 
'you  are  Mr  Arthur  Lawford,  but  as  I  did  not  catch 
sight  of  a  light  in  any  of  the  windows  I  began  to  fear  that 
the  cabman  might  have  set  me  down  at  the  wrong  house.' 

She  raised  her  head,  and  first  through,  and  then  over 
her  spectacles  she  deliberately  and  steadfastly  regarded 
him. 

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The  Return 

'Yes,'  she  said  to  herself,  and  turned,  not  as  it  seemed 
entirely  with  satisfaction,  to  (look  for  a  chair.  He 
wheeled  the  most  comfortable  up  to  the  table. 

'I  have  been  visiting  my  old  friend  Miss  Tucker — 
Rev  W.  Tucker's  daughter — she,  I  knew,  could  give  me 
your  address;  and  sure  enough  she  did.  Your  road, 
d'ye  see,  was  on  my  way  home.  And  I  determined,  in 
spite  of  the  hour,  just  to  inquire.  You  must  understand, 
Mr  Law  ford,  there  was  something  that  I  rather  particu- 
larly wanted  to  say  to  you.  But  there! — you're  looking 
sadly,  sadly  ill;  and,'  she  glanced  round  a  little  inquisi- 
tively, 'I  think  my  story  had  better  wait  for  a  more 
convenient  occasion.' 

'Not  at  all,  Miss  Sinnet;  please  not,'  Lawford  assured 
her,  'really.  I  have  been  ill,  but  I'm  now  practically 
quite  myself  again.  My  wife  and  daughter  have  gone 
away  for  a  few  days;  and  I  follow  to-morrow,  so  if 
you'll  forgive  such  a  very  poor  welcome,  it  may  be  my 
• — my  only  chance.  Do  please  let  me  hear.' 

The  old  lady  leant  back  in  her  chair,  placed  her  hands 
on  its  arms  and  softly  panted,  while  out  of  the  rather 
broad  serenity  of  her  face  she  sat  blinking  up  at  her  com- 
panion as  if  after  a  long  talk,  instead  of  at  the  beginning 
of  one.  'No,'  she  repeated  reflectively,  'I  don't  like  your 
looks  at  all;  yet  here  we  are,  enjoying  beautiful  autumn 
weather,  Mr  Lawford,  why  not  make  use  of  it?' 

'Oh  yes,'  said  Lawford,  'I  do.  I  have  been  making 
tremendous  use  of  it.' 

Her  eyelid  flickered  at  his  candid  glance.  'And  does 
your  business  permit  of  much  walking?' 

'Well,  I've  been  malingering  these  last  few  days — 
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idling  at  home;  but  I  am  usually  more  or  less  my  own 
man,  Miss  Sinnet.  I  walk  a  little.' 

'H'm,  but  not  much  in  my  direction,  Mr  Lawford?' 
she  quizzed  him. 

'All  horrible  indolence,  Miss  Sinnet.  But  I 
often— often  think  of  you;  and  especially  just 
lately. 

'Well,  now,'  she  wriggled  round  her  head  to  get  a 
better  view  of  him  rather  stiffly  seated  on  his  chair,  'that's 
very  peculiar;  because  I  too  have  been  thinking  lately  a 
great  deal  of  you.  And  yet — I  fancy  I  shall  succeed  in 
mystifying  you  presently — not  precisely  of  you,  but  of 
somebody  else!' 

'You  do  mystify  me — "somebody  else"!'  he  replied 
gallantly.  'And  that  is  the  story,  I  suppose?' 

'That's  the  story,'  repeated  Miss  Sinnet  with  some  little 
triumph.  'Now,  let  me  see;  it  was  on  Saturday  last 
— yes,  Saturday  evening;  a  wonderful  sunset;  Bewley 
Heath.' 

'Oh  yes;  my  daughter's  favourite  walk.' 

'And  your  daughter's  age  now?' 

'She's  nearly  sixteen ;  Alice,  you  know.' 

'Ah,  yes,  Alice ;  to  be  sure.  It  is  a  beautiful  walk,  and 
if  fine,  I  generally  take  mine  there  too.  It's  near;  there's 
shade;  it's  very  little  frequented;  and  I  can  wander  and 
muse  undisturbed.  And  that  I  think  is  pretty  well  all 
that  an  old  woman  like  me  is  fit  for,  Mr  Lawford. 
"Nearly  sixteen!"  Is  it  possible?  Dear,  dear  me?  But 
let  me  get  on.  On  my  way  home  from  the  Heath,  you 
may  be  aware,  before  one  reaches  the  road  again,  there's 
a  somewhat  steep  ascent.  I  haven't  the  strength  I  had, 

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and  whether  I'm  fatigued  or  not,  I  have  always  made  it 
a  rule  to  rest  awhile  on  a  most  convenient  little  seat  at  the 
summit,  admire  the  view — what  I  can  see  of  it — and 
then  make  my  way  quietly,  quietly  home.  On  Satur- 
day, however,  and  it  most  rarely  occurs — once,  I  remem- 
ber, when  a  very  civil  nursemaid  was  sitting  with  two 
charmingly  behaved  little  children  in  the  sunshine,  and 
I  heard  they  were  my  old  friend  Major  Loder's  son's 
children — on  Saturday,  as  I  was  saying,  my  own  par- 
ticular little  haunt  was  already  occupied.'  She  glanced 
back  at  him  from  out  of  her  thoughts,  as  it  were.  'By 
a  gentleman.  I  say,  gentleman;  though  I  must  confess 
that  his  conduct — perhaps,  too,  a  little  something  even  in 
his  appearance,  somewhat  belied  the  term.  Anyhow, 
gentleman  let  us  call  him.' 

Law  ford,  all  attention,  nodded,  and  encouragingly 
smiled. 

'I'm  not  one  of  those  tiresome,  suspicious  people,  Mr 
Law  ford,  who  distrust  strangers.  I  have  never  been 
molested,  and  I  have  enjoyed  many  and  many  a  most  in- 
teresting, and  sometimes  instructive,  talk  with  an  indi- 
vidual whom  I've  never  seen  in  my  life  before,  and  this 
side  of  the  grave  perhaps,  am  never  likely  to  see  again.' 
She  lifted  her  head  with  pursed  lips,  and  gravely  yet  still 
flickeringly  regarded  him  once  more.  'Well,  I  made  some 
trifling  remark — the  weather,  the  view,  what-not/  she 
explained  with  a  little  jerk  of  her  shoulder — 'and  to  my 
extreme  astonishment  he  turned  and  addressed  me  by 
name — Miss  Sinnet.  Unmistakably — Sinnet.  Now,  per- 
haps, and  very  rightly,  you  won't  consider  that  a  very  pe- 
culiar thing  to  do?  But  you  will  recollect,  Mr  Lawford, 
that  I  had  been  sitting  there  a  considerable  time.  Surely, 
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now,  if  you  had  recognised  my  face  you  would  have  ad- 
dressed me  at  once  ?' 

'Was  he,  do  you  think,  Miss  Sinnet,  a  little  uncer- 
tain, perhaps?' 

'Never  mind,  never  mind ;  let  me  get  on  with  my  story 
first.  The  next  thing  my  gentleman  does  is  more  mys- 
terious still.  His  whole  manner  was  a  little  peculiar, 
perhaps — a  certain  restlessness,  what,  in  fact,  one  might 
be  almost  tempted  to  call  a  certain  furtiveness  of  beha- 
viour. Never  mind.  What  he  does  next  is  to  ask  me 
a  riddle!  Perhaps  you  won't  think  that  was  peculiar 
either  ?' 

'What  was  the  riddle?'  smiled  Lawford. 

'Why,  to  be  sure,  to  guess  his  name!  Simply  guided, 
so  I  surmised,  by  some  very  faint  resemblance  in  his  face 
to  his  mother,  who  was,  he  assured  me,  an  old  schoolfellow 
of  mine  at  Brighton.  I  thought  and  thought.  I  confess 
the  adventure  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  perplexing.  But 
of  course,  very,  very  few  of  my  old  schoolfellows  remain 
distinctly  in  my  memory  now;  and  I  fear  that  grows 
more  treacherous  the  longer  I  live.  Their  faces  as  girls 
are  clear  enough.  But  later  in  life  most  of  them  drifted 
out  of  sight — many,  alas,  are  dead;  and,  well,  at  last  I 
narrowed  my  man  down  to  one.  And  who  now,  do  you 
suppose  that  was?' 

Lawford  sustained  an  expression  of  abysmal  mysti- 
fication. 'Do  tell  me — who  ?' 

'Your  own  poor  dear  mother,  Mr  Lawford.' 

'He  said  so?' 

'No,  no,'  said  the  old  lady,  with  some  vexation,  closing 
her  eyes.  7  said  so.  He  asked  me  to  guess.  And  I 
guessed  Mary  Lawford ;  now  do  you  see  ?' 

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'Yes,  yes.  But  was  he  like  her,  Miss  Sinnet?  That 
was  really  very,  very  extraordinary.  Did  you  see  any 
likeness  in  his  face?' 

Miss  Sinnet  very  deliberately  took  her  spectacles  out 
of  their  case  again.  'Now,  see  here,  sir;  this  is  being- 
practical,  isn't  it?  I'm  just  going  to  take  a  leisurely 
glance  at  yours.  But  you  mustn't  let  me  forget  the  time. 
You  must  look  after  the  time  for  me/ 

'It's  about  a  quarter  to  ten,'  said  Lawford,  having 
glanced  first  at  the  stopped  clock  on  the  chimney-piece 
and  then  at  his  watch.  He  then  sat  quite  still  and  en- 
deavoured to  sit  at  ease,  while  the  old  lady  lifted  her  bon- 
neted head  and  ever  so  gravely  and  benignly  surveyed 
him. 

'H'm/  she  said  at  last.  'There's  no  mistaking  you. 
It's  Mary's  chin,  and  Mary's  brow — with  just  a  little 
something,  perhaps,  of  her  dreamy  eye.  But  you 
haven't  all  her  looks,  Mr  Lawford,  by  any  manner  of 
means.  She  was  a  very  beautiful  girl,  and  so  vivacious, 
so  fanciful — it  was,  I  suppose  the  foreign  strain  showing 
itself.  Even  marriage  did  not  quite  succeed  in  spoiling 
her/ 

'The  foreign  strain?'  Lawford  glanced  with  a  kind 
of  fleeting  fixity  at  the  quiet  old  figure.  'The  foreign 
strain?' 

'Your  mother's  maiden  name,  my  dear  Mr  Lawford, 
surely  memory  does  not  deceive  me  in  that,  was  van  der 
Gucht.  That,  I  believe,  is  a  foreign  name/ 

'Ah,  yes/  said  Lawford,  his  rising  thoughts  sinking 
quietly  to  rest  again.  'Van  der  Gucht,  of  course.  How 
stupid  of  me!' 

'As  a  matter  of  fact,  your  mother  was  very  proud  of 
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her  Dutch  blood.  But  there/  she  flung  out  little  fin-like 
sleeves,  'if  you  don't  let  me  keep  to  my  story  I  shall  go 
back  as  uneasy  as  I  came.  And  you  didn't,'  she  added 
even  more  fretfully,  'you  didn't  tell  me  the  time.' 

Lawford  stared  at  his  watch  again  for  some  few  mo- 
ments without  replying.  'It's  a  few  minutes  to  ten,' 
he  said  at  last. 

'Dear  me!  And  I'm  keeping  the  cabman!  I  must 
hurry  on.  Well,  now,  I  put  it  to  you;  you  shall  be  my 
father  confessor — though  I  detest  the  idea  in  real  life- — 
was  I  wrong?  Was  I  justified  in  professing  to  the  poor 
fellow  that  I  detected  a  likeness  when  there  was  ex- 
tremely little  likeness  there?' 

'What!  None  at  all!'  cried  Lawford;  'not  the  faintest 
trace  ?' 

'My  dear  good  Mr  Lawford,'  she  expostulated,  patting 
her  lap,  'there's  very  little  more  than  a  trace  of  my  dear 
beautiful  Mary  in  you,  her  own  son.  How  could  there 
be — how  could  you  expect  it  in  him,  a  complete  stranger  ? 
No,  it  was  nothing  but  my  own  foolish  kindliness.  It 
might  have  been  Mary's  son  for  all  that  I  could  recollect. 
I  haven't  for  years,  please  remember,  had  the  pleasure 
of  receiving  a  visit  from  you.  I  am  firmly  of  opinion 
that  I  was  justified.  My  motive  was  entirely  benevolent. 
And  then — to  my  positive  amazement — well,  I  won't  say 
hard  things  of  the  absent ;  but  he  suddenly  turns  round  on 
me  with  a  "Thank  you,  Miss  Bennett."  Bennet,  hark 
ye!  Perhaps  you  won't  agree  that  I  had  any  justifica- 
tion in  being  vexed  and — and  affronted  at  that' 

'I  think,  Miss  Sinnet,'  said  Lawford  solemnly,  'that 
you  were  perfectly  justified.  Oh,  perfectly.  I  wonder 
even  you  had  the  patience  to  give  the  real  Arthur  Law- 

285 


ford  a  chance  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for — for  the 
stranger.' 

'Well,  candidly,'  said  Miss  Sinnett  severely.  'I  was 
very  much  scandalised;  and  I  shouldn't  be  here  now 
telling  you  my  story  if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  mother.* 

'My  mother !' 

The  old  lady  rather  grimly  enjoyed  his  confusion. 
'Yes,  Mr  Lawford,  your  mother.  I  don't  know  why- — 
something  in  his  manner,  something  in  his  face — so  de- 
jected, so  unhappy,  so — if  it  is  not  uncharitable  to  say  it 
— so  wild:  it  has  haunted  me:  I  haven't  been  able 
to  put  the  matter  out  of  my  mind.  I  have  lain  awake  in 
my  bed  thinking  of  him.  Why  did  he  speak  to  me,  I 
keep  asking  myself.  Why  did  he  play  me  so  very  aim- 
less a  trick  ?  How  had  he  learned  my  name  ?  Why  was 
he  sitting  there  so  solitary  and  so  dejected?  And  worse 
even  than  that,  what  has  become  of  him?  A  little  more 
patience,  a  little  more  charity,  perhaps — what  might  I  not 
have  done  for  him?  The  whole  thing  has  harassed  and 
distressed  me  more  than  I  can  say.  Would  you  believe  it, 
I  have  actually  twice,  and  on  one  occasion,  three  times  in 
a  day  made  my  way  to  the  seat — hoping  to  see  him  there. 
And  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was.  And  then,  as  I  say, 
to  crown  all,  I  had  a  most  remarkable  dream  about  your 
mother.  But  that's  my  own  affair.  Elderly  people 
like  me  are  used — well,  perhaps  I  won't  say  used — we're 
not  surprised  or  disturbed  by  visits  from  those  who  have 
gone  before.  We  live,  in  a  sense,  among  the  tombs; 
though  I  would  not  have  you  fancy  it's  in  any  way  a  mor- 
bid or  unhappy  life  to  lead.  We  don't  talk  about  it- — 
certainly  not  to  young  people.  Let  them  enjoy  their 
286 


The  Return 

Eden  while  they  can;  though  there's  plenty  of  apples,  I 
fear,  on  the  Tree  yet,  Mr  Lawford.' 

She  leant  forward  and  whispered  it  with  a  big,  simple 
smile : — 'We  don't  even  discuss  it  much  among  ourselves. 
But  as  one  gets  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  wicket-gate  there's 
other  company  around  one  than  you'll  find  in — in  the 
directory.  And  that  is  why  I  have  just  come  on  here  to- 
night. Very  probably  my  errand  may  seem  to  have  no 
meaning  for  you.  You  look  ill,  but  you  don't  appear  to 
be  in  any  great  trouble  or  adversity,  as  I  feared  in  my 
— well,  there — as  I  feared  you  might  be.  I  must  say, 
though,  it  seems  a  terribly  empty  house.  And  no  lights, 
too!' 

She  slowly,  with  a  little  trembling  nodding  of  her 
bonnet,  turned  her  head  and  glanced  quietly,  fixedly, 
and  unflinchingly,  out  of  the  half-open  door.  'But  that's 
not  my  affair.'  And  again  she  looked  at  him  for  a  little 
while. 

Then  she  stooped  forward  and  touched  him  kindly  and 
trustingly  on  the  knee.  'Trouble  or  no  trouble,'  she  said, 
'it's  never  too  late  to  remind  a  man  of  his  mother.  And 
I'm  sure,  Mr  Lawford,  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  you  are 
struggling  up  out  of  your  illness  again.  We  must  keep 
a  brave  heart,  forty  or  seventy,  whichever  we  may  be: 
"While  the  evil  days  come  not  nor  the  years  draw  nigh 
when  thou  shalt  say,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them,"  though 
they  have  not  come  to  me  even  yet ;  and  I  trust  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  not  to  you' 

She  looked  at  him  without  a  trace  of  emotion  or  con- 
straint in  her  large,  quiet  face,  and  their  eyes  met  for  a 
moment  in  that  brief,  fixed,  baffling  fashion  that  seems 

287 


The  Return 

to  prove  that  mankind  is  after  all  but  a  dumb  masked 
creature  saddled  with  the  vain  illusion  of  speech. 

'And  now  that  I've  eased  my  conscience/  said  the  old 
lady,  pulling  down  her  veil,  'I  must  beg  pardon  for  in- 
truding at  such  an  hour  of  the  evening.  And  may  I  have 
your  arm  down  those  dreadful  steps?  Really,  Mr  Law- 
ford,  judging  from  the  houses  they  erect  for  us,  the 
builders  must  have  a  very  peculiar  notion  of  mankind. 
Is  the  fly  still  there?  I  expressly  told  the  man  to  wait, 
and  what  I  am  going  to  do  if !' 

'He's  there,'  Law  ford  reassured  her,  craning  his  neck 
in  their  slow  progress  to  catch  a  peep  into  the  quiet  road. 
And  like  a  flock  of  birds  scared  by  a  chance  comer  at 
their  feeding  in  some  deserted  field,  a  whirring  cloud 
of  memories  swept  softly  up  in  his  mind — memories 
whose  import  he  made  no  effort  to  discover.  None  the 
less,  the  leisurely  descent  became  in  their  company  some- 
thing of  a  real  experience  even  in  such  a  brimming  week. 

'I  hope,  some  day,  you  will  really  tell  me  your  dream?' 
he  said,  pushing  the  old  lady's  silk  skirts  in  after  her  as 
she  slowly  climbed  into  the  carriage. 

'Ah,  my  dear  Lawford,  when  you  are  my  age,'  she  called 
back  to  him,  groping  her  way  into  the  rather  musty  gloom, 
'you'll  dream  such  dreams  for  yourself.  Life's  not  what's 
just  the  fashion.  And  there  are  queerer  things  to  be 
seen  and  heard  just  quietly  in  one's  solitude  than  this 
busy  life  gives  us  time  to  discover.  But  as  for  my  mys- 
tifying Bewley  acquaintance — I  confess  I  cannot  make 
head  or  tail  of  him.' 

'Was  he,'  said  Lawford  rather  vaguely,  looking  up  into 
the  dim  white  face  that  with  its  plumes  filled  nearly  the 
whole  carriage  window,  'was  his  face  very  unpleasing?' 
288 


The  Return 

She  raised  a  gloved  hand.  'It  has  haunted  me,  haunted 
me,  Mr  Law  ford;  its — its  conflict!  Poor  fellow;  I  hope, 
I  do  hope,  he  faced  his  trouble  out.  But  I  shall  never 
see  him  again.' 

He  squeezed  the  trembling,  kindly  old  hand.  'I  bet, 
Miss  Sinnet/  he  said  earnestly,  'even  your  having  thought 
kindly  of  the  poor  beggar  eased  his  mind — whoever 
he  may  have  been.  I  assure  you,  assure  you  of  that.' 

'Ay,  but  I  did  more  than  think,'  replied  the  old  lady  with 
a  chuckle  that  might  have  seemed  even  a  little  derisive  if 
it  had  not  been  so  profoundly  magnanimous. 

He  watched  the  old  black  fly  roll  slowly  off,  and  still 
smiling  at  Miss  Sinnet's  inscrutable  finesse  went  back  into 
the  house.  'And  now,  my  friend,'  he  said,  addressing 
peacefully  the  thronging  darkness,  'the  time's  nearly  up 
for  me  to  go  too.' 

He  had  made  up  his  mind.  Or,  rather,  it  seemed  as 
if  in  the  unregarded  silences  of  this  last  long  talk  his 
mind  had  made  up  itself.  Only  among  impossibilities 
had  he  the  shadow  of  a  choice.  In  this  old  haunted 
house,  amid  this  shallow  turmoil  no  practicable  clue  could 
shew  itself  of  a  way  out.  He  would  go  away  for  a  while. 

He  left  the  door  ajar  behind  him  for  the  moments  still 
left,  and  stood  for  a  while  thinking.  Then,  lamp  in 
hand,  he  descended  into  the  breakfast-room  for  pen,  ink, 
and  paper.  He  sat  for  some  time  in  that  underground 
calm,  nibbling  his  pen  like  a  harassed  and  self-conscious 
schoolboy.  At  last  he  began: — 

'Mv  DEAR  SHEILA, — I  must  tell  you,  to  begin  with, 
that  the  change  has  now  all  passed  away.  I  am — as  near 
as  man  can  be — completely  myself  again.  And  next :  that 
I  overheard  all  that  was  said  to-night  in  the  dining-room. 

289 


The  Return 

I'm  sorry  for  listening;  but  it's  no  good  going  over  all 
that  now.  Here  I  am,  and,  as  you  said,  for  Alice's  sake 
we  must  make  the  best  of  it.  I  am  going  away  for  a 
while,  to  get,  if  I  can,  a  chance  to  quiet  down.  I  sup- 
pose every  one  comes  sooner  or  later  to  a  time  in  life 
when  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done  but  just  shut  one's 
eyes  and  blunder  on.  And  that's  all  I  can  do  now — 
blunder  on.  .  .  .' 

He  paused,  and  suddenly,  at  the  echo  of  the  words  in 
his  mind,  a  revulsion  of  feeling — shame  and  hatred  of 
himself  surged  up,  and  he  tore  his  letter  into  tiny  pieces. 
Once  more  he  began,  'my  dear  Sheila,'  dropped  his  pen, 
sat  on  for  a  long  time,  cold  and  inert,  harbouring  almost 
unendurably  a  pitiful,  hopeless  longing.  .  .  .  He  would 
write  to  Grisel  another  day. 

He  leant  back  in  his  chair,  his  fingers  pressed  against 
his  eyelids.  And  clearer  than  those  which  myriad-hued 
reality  can  ever  present,  pictures  of  the  imagination  swam 
up  before  his  eyes.  It  seemed,  indeed,  that  even  now 
some  ghost,  some  revenant  of  himself  was  sitting  there, 
in  the  old  green  churchyard,  roofed  only  with  a  thousand 
thousand  stars.  The  breath  of  darkness  stirred  softly  on 
his  cheek.  Some  little  scampering  shape  slipped  by.  A 
bird  on  high  cried  weirdly,  solemnly,  over  the  globe. 
He  shuddered  faintly,  and  looked  out  again  into  the 
small  lamplit  room. 

Here,  too,  was  quite  as  inexplicable  a  coming  and 
going.  A  fly  was  walking  on  the  table  beneath  his 
eyes,  with  the  uneasy  gait  of  one  that  has  outlived  his 
hour  and  most  of  his  companions.  Mice  were  scamper- 
ing and  shrieking  in  the  empty  kitchen.  And  all  about 
him,  in  the  viewless  air,  the  phantoms  of  another  life 
290 


The  Return 

passed  by,  unmindful  of  his  motionless  body.  He  fell 
into  a  lethargy  of  the  senses,  and  only  gradually  became 
aware  after  a  while  of  the  strange  long-drawn  sigh  of  rain 
at  the  window.  He  rose  and  opened  it.  The  night- 
air  flowed  in,  chilled  with  its  waters  and  faintly  fragrant 
of  the  dust.  It  soothed  away  all  thought  for  a  while. 
He  turned  back  to  his  chair.  He  would  wait  until  the 
rain  had  lulled  before  starting.  .  .  . 

A  little  before  midnight  the  door  was  softly,  and  with 
extreme  care,  pushed  open,  and  Mr  Bethany's  old  face, 
with  an  intense  and  sharpened  scrutiny,  looked  in  on  the 
lamplit  room.  And  as  if  still  intent  on  the  least  sound 
within  the  empty  walls  around  him,  he  came  near,  and 
stooping  across  the  table,  stared  through  his  spectacles 
at  the  sidelong  face  of  his  friend,  so  still,  with  hands  so 
lightly  laid  on  the  arms  of  his  chair  that  the  old  man 
had  need  to  watch  closely  to  detect  in  his  heavy  slumber 
the  slow  measured  rise  and  fall  of  his  breast. 

He  turned  wearily  away  muttering  a  little,  between 
an  immeasurable  relief  and  a  now  almost  intolerable 
medley  of  vexations.  What  was  this  monstrous  web  of 
Craik's  ?  What  had  the  creature  been  nodding  and  ducket- 
ing  about? — those  whisperings,  that  tattling?  And  what 
in  the  end,  when  you  were  old  and  sour  and  out-strategied, 
what  was  the  end  to  be  of  this  urgent  dream  called  Life? 

He  sat  quietly  down  and  drew  his  hands  over  his  face, 
pushed  his  lean  knotted  fingers  up  under  his  spectacles, 
then  sat  blinking — and  softly  slowly  deciphered  the  soli- 
tary 'My  dear  Sheila'  on  Lawford's  note-paper.  'H'm,' 
he  muttered,  and  looked  up  again  at  the  dark  still  eyelids 
that  in  the  strange  torpor  of  sleep  might  yet  be  dimly 
conveying  to  the  dreaming  brain  behind  them  some  hint 

291 


The  Return 

of  his  presence.  'I  wish  to  goodness,  you  wonderful  old 
creature,'  he  muttered,  wagging  his  head,  'I  wish  to  good- 
ness you'd  wake  up.' 

For  some  time  he  sat  on,  listening  to  the  still  soft  down- 
pour on  the  fading  leaves.  'They  don't  come  to  me,' 
he  said  softly  again;  with  a  tiny  smile  on  his  old  face. 
'It's  that  old  mediaeval  Craik:  with  a  face  like  a  last 
year's  rookery !'  And  again  he  sat,  with  head  a  little  side- 
long, listening  now  to  the  infinitesimal  sounds  of  life 
without,  now  to  the  thoughts  within,  and  ever  and 
again  he  gazed  steadfastly  on  Lawford. 

At  last  it  seemed  in  the  haunted  quietness  other  thoughts 
came  to  him.  A  cloud,  as  it  were  of  youth,  drew  over 
the  wrinkled  skin,  composed  the  birdlike  keenness;  his 
head  nodded.  Once,  like  Lawford  in  the  darkness  at 
Widderstone,  he  glanced  up  sharply  across  the  lamplight  at 
his  phantasmagorical  shadowy  companion,  heard  the  steady 
surge  of  multitudinous  rain-drops,  like  the  roar  of  Time's 
winged  chariot  hurrying  near ;  then  he  too,  with  spectacles 
awry,  bobbed  on  in  his  chair,  a  weary  old  sentinel  on  the 
outskirts  of  his  friend's  denuded  battlefield. 


293 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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